The Road Away From Heartache
by Princess Twilite
Summary: "I didn't fall in love with Rogue to let go of Jean. I let go of Jean... and then I fell in love with Rogue." Scott/Rogue. Others. X2 spoilers. Chapter Four Added.
1. Chapter One: Rogue

Title: The Road Away From Heartache  
  
Author: Princess Twilite (princesstwilite2@aol.com)  
  
Rating: R  
  
Summary: "I didn't fall in love with Rogue because it was time to let go of Jean." "Looks kinda  
like that from where I'm standing..." "No, Logan, you've got it all wrong. I let go of Jean... and  
then I fell in love with Rogue."  
  
Pairings: Scott/Rogue, Rogue/Bobby, Scott/Jean, slight Rogue/Logan.  
  
Spoilers: Post X-Men 2: The Movie  
  
Beta Readers (this chapter): A.J., Alex Dollard   
  
WARNING! X-MEN 2: The Movie Spoilers ahead! You've been warned!!  
  
A/N: Well, I went, saw the movie, and came out with the urge to write a really Scott/Rogue  
oriented novel. It can't be explained. So, I figured if I was going to do it, I was going to do it  
right. This is really heavy with the Scott/Jean and Rogue/Bobby as well, but make no mistake -  
Scott/Rogue. To the core. VERY Rogue focused, as well as Scott focused. Other characters will  
be making their appearances, but for necessity sake, must be delegated to the background while  
these two are the ones to shine.  
  
A/N 2: A chapter will be posted each week, that way it doesn't strain my beta readers. But hey,  
each chapter is fairly long, so there's filling.  
Feedback: um, yes? Please. The critical should be sent off list.   
  
* * *  
The Road Away From Heartache   
by Princess Twilite  
Chapter One (1/15)  
These days, grief intertwined with hope and fear, and tasted like apple pie heating in the kitchen.  
She had sat one day, speaking with Ororo in a quiet voice, about how her mother had never really  
cared for apple pie, but had always made it anyway, because Marie (and she'd once loved her  
own name) had adored it.  
  
Ororo had taken her hand and told her that Jean liked apple pie too.   
  
For a moment, Rogue had felt like a simple child with absolutely no bearings, touched by  
something deeper and older than she could ever possibly understand. Death was big and wide,  
and something loomed even wider, tasting like war, metal, and pie.  
* * *  
Rogue was occasionally fascinated by her own skin. When she sat by her window in the  
moonlight without her gloves, pressing her palm against the glass, testing the slickness of the  
surface, the fascination grew more acute. The moon glittered through the trees, cut in half by  
branches swaying at the will of breaking wind, hushing through the leaves.  
  
The gloves rested half on the back of the chair, flat fingers drifting ever closer to the floor as she  
shifted on the cushions, thrusting the silk away from her with the sharp outline of her shoulders.  
Bobby had taught her how to be cold, she thought ironically, pulling her fingers away from the  
glass and brushing the tips across the smooth skin of her cheek.   
  
Bobby taught her every day what it was like to constantly be on the edge of freezing, hungry for  
something warm to fill you up. She'd taken him into herself, sucked at his soul through his  
strangely heated lips and now, when he looked at her, she knew what he was feeling. The burning  
ache she made inside his heart, which twisted inside her own chest now. How could she tell him,  
when he felt so intensely, that she wasn't sure if what she felt for him was real or possibly only a  
reflection for how he felt when it came to her?  
  
He... loved her. She couldn't quite get over it, and she knew it frustrated him to no end.  
  
Taking her hand away from her face, Rogue leaned forward and tested the glass with her  
forehead, staring hard outside and thinking about how easy it would be to just go away again,  
slipping into the quiet grays of her life on the run. Easy, but not really, because she didn't want to  
leave so much as she wanted to escape the ties that were making her care enough to stay.  
  
There was a movement out in the garden. Rogue's breath caught and she pressed her forehead  
harder against the glass, peering into the yard below. Clouds slipped over the moon, blackening  
the sky, creeping into the edges and turning the shadows into a solid wall that she couldn't look  
through. Maybe she'd imagined the movement, to distract her own mind from the cowardly  
thoughts that burned there.  
  
Grief was too permanent, and everyone around her had a face full of it. She could feel it in her  
own expression, weighing down her features, when the clouds passed and the garden was  
suddenly awash in silver light. She caught the shape of visor, glinting red, and knew who stood  
there, like a crumbling statue waiting for his artist to come back and finish him off.  
  
Cyclops. Scott. Too many names and she'd barely ever spoken to him, but knew him anyway, in  
the weird way you know the people you always see from the corner of your eye. Sitting there, in  
her large, comfortable chair with her face pressed against the glass, she suddenly ached for him.  
Fiercely.   
  
Jean was gone. There was no changing that, and yet he stood there, like there MUST be a way. In  
his shoulders, a *someday* just waiting to happen.  
  
Rogue found herself standing, still looking through the window at him wearing moonlight on his  
back, as she slipped on her gloves, hiding her deadly skin. She didn't know exactly what she  
could say to him. After all, nothing would console him, but she understood loss and grief better  
than she wanted to. The floorboards creaked as she slipped out of the room she shared with  
Jubilee and she heard the other girl snort in her sleep, tossing on the bed. Rogue didn't look back,  
but closed the door gently behind her, with little more than a quiet click as the metal caught and  
latched.  
  
The hallways seemed longer at night, like something out of a Hitchcock movie.  
  
They twisted, turned, and the stairs were hard beneath her sock covered feet. A part of her hoped  
that all the time she was taking, being careful not to wake anyone, would end with Scott being  
gone from the garden. He wouldn't want to speak to her, not when he didn't know her and  
probably thought of her like a little lost orphan girl, a child compared to him. But he wasn't gone.  
He was standing just as stiffly when she had opened the door to the garden and closed it behind  
her, taking the cold night air into her lungs.  
  
The night smelled of fresh cut grass, making her nostrils twitch. Grief had a smell now too. Or  
maybe she was just a little more fanciful than she let on.  
  
Scott turned, just his head, when Rogue was about ten feet behind him, walking across the grass.  
It always unnerved her that she couldn't see his eyes, even when she knew he was looking at her.  
But the stone set of his jaw was enough to read his expression.   
  
It said, loud and clearly, that she shouldn't have come.  
  
Pebbles weighed down her heart. "I'm sorry." She had blurted the words out, whistled nearly,  
breath backing up. So bad with emotion. "I saw you and I wanted to say that." Even though she  
hadn't known that until she'd seen the way his mouth was faded into a thin line of sorrow. "You  
two were... I'm sorry."  
  
His jaw clenched, shoulders twitching, hunching down. "You should be in bed, Rogue. It's late  
and I know you have class early in the morning."  
  
She raised an eyebrow, but caught herself before asking how he knew. Of course he knew. He  
was Scott after all. A part of Logan that insisted on lingering in her mind whispered mockingly in  
her ear that the Fearless Leader knew absolutely everything.  
  
"Yea', I do." Rogue knotted her fingers together in front of her, pressing them to her gut,  
gathering courage. "I liked her, ya know. I mean, I didn't know her that well, but she had the  
prettiest red hair."  
  
"Yes." Scott turned his gaze back toward the sky. "But everything's red to me. I couldn't really  
see it."  
  
Click. Grief kicking back into place. Rogue swallowed and stepped toward him, the wet grass  
staining her socks, water absorbing through the cotton and freezing her toes. She had that queasy,  
*not-quite-there* feeling in her stomach as she reached up and touched the visor he used to keep  
his power under control. He flinched as if she'd bitten him, grabbing her hand firmly but  
carefully, pushing it down to her waist.  
  
"What are you doing?" he demanded in a flat voice.   
  
Rogue twisted her wrist free from his grasp, still unused to being touched, even with all the  
touching Bobby did. His lips parted slightly, in realization, and his hand dropped to his side.   
  
"I just want to show you something," Rogue said. She reached up again, almost smiling when he  
backed away. Yes, she understood something about grief, and there were small ways to make it  
better. She reached for his visor again, and once more, he stumbled back, mouth frowning.  
"Honestly. It won't hurt, I promise."  
  
Scott opened his mouth, taking a breath as if to argue.  
  
"Close your eyes," Rogue ordered, just as she took away the visor. He did so automatically,  
entire body tensing as if she'd just killed them both. She saw his teeth clench together violently, a  
hiss breaking through, saying more than if he'd been able to argue.  
  
Looking down at the visor in her hand, she turned it left, then right, before slipping it onto her  
face. A slow throbbing began at her temples as she stared through the lenses, seeing the night in  
dark shades of red. Rogue blinked a few times, trying to get used to the new way of looking at  
the world. And then she smiled, brightly, and took the visor off, handing it to his outstretched,  
seeking hand.  
  
Scott took it back with a sigh of relief, immediately putting the visor where it belonged, on his  
face. His teeth were still clenched as he looked over at her, and she knew he was probably glaring  
at her behind the obstruction he always wore.  
  
"Do you mind telling me what that was all about? I came out here to be alone, not to nearly kill  
one of my students."  
  
But Rogue was still smiling. "You said you couldn't see her hair."  
  
Scott's eyebrows furrowed, lips closing into that familiar line, and he continued to look at her. "I  
did."  
  
"Well, I know you're an elder and all," she said softly, "But the way you see the world? That's  
the exact color of her hair."  
  
Scott's face loosened, became soft, light with the moon. He swallowed, as if taking the  
information inside of him. Then he nodded, just a dip of his chin.  
  
Rogue's smile fell away in the face of his expression, because she really didn't belong out here,  
even if she'd felt the urge to make him okay and 'fearless' again. This wasn't her place, seeing  
him like this. Time to give back his solitude. She walked away, surprised to hear him softly call  
after her when she'd reached the doors to the mansion. She pivoted on the stairs, the grain of the  
cement rough on her feet, looking at him alone in the middle of the garden... alone like she'd  
never seen him before. It was uncomfortable, waiting in silence for him to speak.  
  
"Thank you," he said. Simply.  
  
Rogue nodded. And then she slipped back into the mansion, contemplating the idea of taking a  
nice big bite of that uneaten apple pie.  
* * *  
Bobby stroked her left shoulder while they talked, a constant motion that lulled her. They sat on  
the steps outside of the school, eating their lunch and watching the younger children play.  
Everyone was still a little shaky from the recent attack, worry showing in faltering steps and eyes  
darting at loud sounds. Rogue was caught in the blister of it all, remembering Logan dropping  
from nowhere, slicing men in two and their bodies falling limply to the floor.  
  
After it all, the confusion, the death, Bobby had asked her, "Are you in love with him?"  
  
"Him?" She'd replied, confused. "Who's 'him'?"  
  
"Wolverine," he'd said. A tense frown crinkled the sweet lines of his face and he'd tapped a  
pencil against the table in the library. Rogue had narrowed her eyes when the pencil began to  
freeze.  
  
"Don't be stupid," she'd bitten out, a slice of heated anger breaking off in the face of his cool  
behavior. The irony wasn't lost on her. "I had a crush. He saved my life, Bobby. I think I'm  
entitled to caring for him, don't you?"  
  
"So you don't?" He'd glanced at her, with those hungry eyes of his that made her worry at how  
quickly things were happening between them. *Scared* her because he actually gave a damn  
about her.   
  
"No, Bobby. I'm not in love with Logan. I wish you'd stop thinking it."  
  
"Okay." He had blown out a breath, dropping the frozen pencil onto the table. "Okay."  
  
And now the finger, brushing back and forth, slipping over her shoulder blade, up around, near  
her neck, near the skin. Always so intense. Bobby, the boy next door, was a lot hotter than the  
ice.  
  
"I don't know," Rogue muttered, shivering a little. He paused, pulled back.   
  
"Don't know what?"  
  
"Huh?" She asked, confused, and then shook her head. "Oh, about the tension lately. I don't  
know when we're gonna get over this. It's frustrating." Rogue reached back and took his fingers  
into her gloved hand, pressing them back into her shoulder, trying to convey that it was okay, she  
liked it.  
  
"It's hard," he confirmed, once more stroking her. She smiled softly, glancing at him with veiled  
eyes. His eyes widened briefly, before he laughed, stilted and nervous. "That too."  
  
Cute, she thought, cute.   
  
Rogue patted his hand. "Kidding, Sugar." Feeling strangely connected to him with the children  
running around them and the gray clouds rolling into the sky above, she laced their fingers  
together. "What I mean is... I just don't want to feel like this, ya know?" She squeezed his palm  
in emphasis, because yes, he *did* know. "Any moment, I feel like the earth is going to drop out  
from beneath my feet and I'm gonna be floating around in space."  
  
Bobby said nothing, searching her eyes. Rogue's head pulled back, just the slightest, in response.  
He got like this at the oddest times, and it was like they were talking on a whole different level.  
"Like you can't breathe?" He whispered, as if they shared a secret. "Like one day you're going to  
wake up and not have a heart anymore?"  
  
Her heart, the one they spoke of, throbbed painfully, and suddenly their connection was too  
much. She flexed her fingers, freeing her hand. Bobby's hung there, fingers splayed in the air, an  
expression of confusion moving as slowly across his face as the clouds above them moved across  
the sky.  
  
"Yeah," Rogue said anxiously, not breaking his gaze, hoping he'd understand even if she didn't,  
not completely. "Kinda like that."  
  
Bobby's eyes cleared, moved into that pure blue that made her ache inside, a line between them  
that twisted and tugged. He moved in swiftly, before she could stop him, and stole one dangerous  
kiss, nipping at her mouth. She felt the brief swipe of his tongue. He pulled away just as quickly,  
and she was left gasping, lips parted, staring addlebrained into his gaze.  
  
"Bobby..." she began, and stopped, not knowing what to say.  
  
"You don't want to hurt me," he said, and she frowned. "Well, you won't. Because as much as  
you try to make me, Rogue, I'm not going anywhere."  
  
The way he said it, so sure, so very sincere, had her looking away, at Siren who had suddenly  
laughed loudly, a splintering sound of joy that slapped ears sharply and left Rogue dizzy.  
* * *  
Rogue nervously entered the math classroom, skirting around the edge of other people, sliding  
into the seat of her familiar desk in the back row. She set her textbook onto the wooden surface,  
tucked her skirt beneath her thighs, and slumped a little.  
  
Scott taught this class.  
  
Peering cautiously around the head of the student in front of her, she saw that he was at the front  
of the class, writing numbers on the chalkboard. He wore his usual resolute air. She'd thought  
more than once that math fit him. Numbers were precise. They never changed. You could count  
on them, no matter what. A moment later, when the final student had entered, Scott faced the  
class. Rogue moved back sharply, glad for the first time that Shaun, the boy in front of her, had  
such a fat head. After the previous night, she wasn't eager to be noticed by Scott.  
  
"Afternoon, class," he said, placing his hands together and clapping loudly to get everyone's  
attention. There were a few 'Afternoon Mr. Summers' in return, mumbled sporadically in the  
room. Rogue remained quiet, casually opening her notebook to a blank page, preparing for the  
notes she would no doubt have to take.  
  
Scott, as usual, jumped straight into the deep waters, starting where they had left off in the last  
class. He worked through the problem he had created on the board, showing his work, going  
through the steps with everyone and explaining how he had come to his solution. Rogue took  
notes idly, busy wondering how he could do it, act so calm when only the night before, he'd worn  
the face of a broken man. 'Fearless leader' indeed, she thought wryly, stronger than she'd ever  
be.  
  
It wasn't until he had begun moving down the aisles, passing back their latest test, that she  
caught the signs of weariness on his face. Tired lines stretched around his mouth. She quickly  
pulled her gaze away from him when he turned in her direction, just a casual glance landing on  
her that had her heart thumping sickeningly in her chest.   
  
Last night she'd seen him near tears. And as much as she told herself she hadn't overstepped her  
territory, she felt oddly out of place under his concealed gaze.  
  
A moment later, a hand appeared in her line of sight, and a paper was sat face down onto her  
desk. Rogue looked up, finding Scott at her side, a small smile on his lips.  
  
"You did well," he said quietly. Rogue nodded dumbly, not sure what to say. Scott remained, for  
a moment longer than he had with the others, standing silently beside her desk. Rogue  
swallowed, feeling strangely guilty for knowing more about his grief than she should. Was he  
angry? She might have asked, though probably not, but he suddenly moved away, heading back  
to his place in front of the class, like he hadn't just spoken to her like a friend instead of a  
teacher.  
  
Rogue blinked and turned over her test, staring at the B+ written at the top in red, red ink. She  
looked up, found him facing her, but couldn't tell if his eyes were on her because of his glasses.  
Below the B+, written clearly: "See me after class."  
  
Yeah, he was probably angry.  
* * *   
By the time math class was over (each session lasted two hours and they met three times a week),  
Rogue had almost talked herself into slipping out the door anyway. After all, Bobby would  
probably be waiting outside, and that was reason enough to blow off Scott's request. Then again,  
he was her teacher. Just because she had seen him vulnerable a time or two didn't make her  
different from any other student he taught.  
  
She tucked the books and pencil into her bag, and then walked toward the front of the room,  
where Scott was sitting behind his desk, waiting for her patiently, with his fingers laced together,  
hands resting casually on his stomach. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stood on the other  
side of the desk.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Summers?"  
  
Scott tilted his head to the side, eyebrows drawn together above his shades. "I believe it would be  
appropriate for you to call me Scott."  
  
Feeling admonished and more out of place than ever, Rogue tightened her arms around her torso,  
shaking her head. "I was always taught that it's rude to call a teacher by their first name."   
  
"Rogue," Scott said quietly, "Not only have we been on a mission together..." He stopped, voice  
catching on a rough patch of memory about just how bad that mission had gone. "You've also  
seen me during... inopportune moments. You've always been a bit more than a student around  
here. Trust me."  
  
Rogue nodded her head, if only to pacify him. "Yes, Mr... Scott."  
  
"Better." Scott shifted in the chair, leaning back and regarding her seriously. "About last night..."  
  
"I'm sorry," she burst out, much like the night before. "I shouldn't have bothered you, I know it. I  
was raised better than that, but you just looked so sad and alone..."  
  
"Rogue," he interceded. "It's okay. I didn't request your presence to lecture you on proper  
student-teacher behavior, though I should say to you that you shouldn't be wandering around  
alone that late at night in the first place, but we'll leave that be for the moment." He smiled, not  
grandly, but a low key, half-there grin of self-awareness. "For the moment. I wanted to thank you  
again."  
  
"For what?" Even though she knew. Obviously, he wanted to tell her.  
  
"For giving me what no one else did," he replied in a wistful voice. "Something back."  
  
Rogue's eyes clouded over, and she hid them, staring down at her scuffed black combat boots.  
She pushed the toe against the edge of his desk, uneasy in the silence. Since she'd come to the  
mansion, everyone had been so kind to her, so giving and understanding and NORMAL about it  
all. But even though she'd had a unique bond with the adults and the X-men team, she hadn't  
spent a whole lot of time participating in heart to hearts with them. In fact, the only person she'd  
even broached anything close to depth with had been Bobby, Logan, and occasionally Storm. But  
Storm was hard to speak with because they didn't know each other that well yet, and Logan, well  
as much as he was around these days, she'd had a hard enough time dealing with Bobby's  
jealously of the man, and she didn't care to risk losing him over it.  
  
"You don't need to thank me again," Rogue responded, still looking at her toes. Her hair fell  
forward, veiling half her face and shading her eyes. "I just thought maybe you'd needed some  
company or something. I really shouldn't have..."  
  
"Not that again."  
  
She looked up, pushing her hair back. "Yeah, said that huh? Um, anyway, you're welcome." She  
smiled, trying to break the tension building in her chest. How could she tell him that she felt  
partly responsible, that if she'd just been able to get the craft down easier, they'd been gone in  
time? How could she tell him that she hadn't quite liked Jean in the first place, even though she'd  
been nice enough, because of one really big crush she'd had on Logan?  
  
She couldn't tell him. *Couldn't*.  
  
Guilt made her back away from the desk, her smile turning shaky. He watched her curiously, still  
frowning. Rogue cleared her throat. "Just... it was nothing, all right? No more thanking me."  
  
After a moment, he nodded, and that was that. He bent over his desk and went to work on  
grading homework, and Rogue slipped out of the classroom, meeting Bobby who was waiting  
outside. She hoped they fell back into their normal roles quickly. It was hard as hell being a  
kinda-friend to your teacher.  
* * *  
A level of excitement worked its way through the halls of the mansion, worming into the corners  
and falling from the eyes of the adults. A level of tension that couldn't be hidden. Classes were  
postponed, excuses handed out, and everyone was told nothing was going on.  
  
Nothing. *Right*.  
  
Rogue stared at the clock in the cafeteria, and then looked over at the table near the window,  
where all the X-Men sat. Storm glanced over once, knowing Rogue knew exactly what was going  
on.   
  
"Let's go Cyke," she heard Logan growl, standing impatiently at the edge of the table. Scott took  
a slow bite of his pudding, nodding his head. When he stood, there was a strange expression of  
hesitancy on his face. First mission since... that one mission that had taken everything from him.  
  
Rogue looked away. Guilt turned her face red.  
  
"Hey," Bobby said, patting her knee. "We can't go every time, ya know. That's a bit down the  
line... we still have a lot to learn."  
* * *  
"No... No, mom, just listen to me. Listen... please, mom?"  
  
Rogue stared at the written-in pages of her text book while Bobby talked to his mom on the  
lounge phone. The cracking in his voice made her stomach twist into knots. Giving up on trying  
to pretend she wasn't listening, she leaned over and grabbed his hand in a vice grip. He looked at  
her in misery, holding her palm tightly against his stomach.  
  
"I can't help what I am," he said in a hoarse voice, blinking back tears. "Any more than I can  
help that I'm your son. It's just who I am. Mom?"  
  
Rogue watched his face intently, the fine trembling of his mouth, the way the skin stretched  
tautly over his cheekbones, and prayed his mother would realize just what she'd be giving up if  
she didn't accept him.   
  
"Don't hang up. Don't..."  
  
His face flinched, and Rogue's heart thumped unpleasantly in sympathy. She'd hung up on him.  
His mother, the woman who had given birth to him had cut him out, left him hanging onto the  
phone, freezing its plastic surface. Bobby's eyes stared blankly at the wall for a moment before  
they turned toward her, a lost look in their depths, something hazy and tortured waiting there.  
Rogue made a soft sound in her throat and touched the back of his neck with the gloved fingers  
of her other hand, pulling until his forehead was pressed into her cloth covered shoulders and she  
could press their cheeks together with the protection of her hair.   
  
Bobby didn't fight her tug, came easily, blindly dropping the frozen phone and reaching out to  
wrap his arms around her waist, tucking their bodies together as heartbreak began to make him  
tremble.  
  
Rogue stared absently at the ceiling while she rocked him, not knowing how to comfort him, not  
knowing if there was even a way at all. What do you say to someone when their mother just picks  
up and goes away? Probably the same thing someone could have said when she'd picked up and  
gone away herself. Absolutely nothing.   
  
In the distance, she heard the sound of a plane descending, the rumbling noise of returning  
fighters, weary and bloody. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek harder against her  
boyfriend's.   
* * *  
Life was something to think about, too much when she was trying to sleep and the weight of her  
blanket was making her nightgown-covered thighs itch like something was biting her. When the  
weather was hot and the air conditioning was broke, when Jubilee was snoring like a tiger, and it  
felt like a fly was buzzing around her ear, constantly waking her up when she'd just gotten to the  
point where maybe... MAYBE... she could sleep...  
  
If she got wrapped up in thought, she started thinking about her skin, about dying, about the  
dead. Her thoughts would drift on about Jean and Scott, about fatal love, about how Bobby's  
kisses tasted, and about those people she'd sucked inside her with her deadly skin. She was fatal.  
She wasn't sure about love. She cared...  
  
Sometimes she thought about Pyro, wearing that constantly conflicted - wanting more than *this*  
life - face of his. And then she'd remember the way he tossed fire at those people, who hadn't  
been exactly friendly-like, no, but hadn't understood either.  
  
She remembered the smell of their flesh burning, and how she'd pushed up his pant leg and  
grabbed onto his ankle, skin prickled with hair, standing on end... How his life started pouring  
into her, and she'd stared out at the orange flames, pulling all the fire back away, manipulating it  
as he'd done.  
  
And now she had Pyro in her head because of it, though he was starting to fade a little as the  
weeks passed. Sometimes when Bobby came in for a quick kiss that she was never prepared for;  
the biting, fear-filled gotta-do-it type, she could hear Pyro in the back of her head, making  
kissing-noises and joking about teenage pregnancy.  
  
Sometimes... she wished she had a chance to miss him. But he was in her head, always there.  
Somewhere. She didn't tell Bobby, as sweet as he was. She didn't tell anyone.  
  
It was keeping her awake tonight. Rogue, frustrated that sleep still alluded her, kicked the  
blankets toward the end of the bed, and slapped the back of her head against the pillow as if she  
could make her brain smarten up or at least knock herself out. Hell, she thought, this ain't gonna  
work.  
  
After a growl or two that was her *own* and not Logan's, Rogue got out of bed, pushing her toes  
into her slippers and grabbing the robe she'd taken to keeping by the bedside, just in case she  
couldn't sleep. The silk touched her skin softly, made her sigh as she tied the knot around her  
waist, closing the robe. Hoping some fresh air would clear her head, take away the painful  
thoughts and the cock-eyed twinges of guilt, she slipped through her bedroom door. Down the  
hall, stairs, and outside, into the garden.  
  
Cool air immediately assaulted her lungs, washing through her nostrils and down her throat,  
taking away the heat of a night spent tangling with her blankets on a gasp. Rogue closed her eyes,  
smiling widely, in the fresh, open way she did when no one was around to see. She left her arms  
at her side and tilted her chin up, feeling the breeze waft over her, toying with the edges of her  
robe and nightgown, slipping over her ankles and the bare skin of her throat.  
  
Her cheeks flushed when she heard someone clear their throat, and she jumped guiltily, snapping  
her eyes open and taking a quick step back, out of the light spilled by the moon. Her heart beat  
like a bass drum, loud and heavy in her chest. A man's figure stood in the shadows, a few feet  
away from the steps. The line of his shoulders was familiar.  
  
Scott stepped forward, head tilted to the side, the same expression on his face that he had worn  
around her for days.  
  
"You should do that more," he said.  
  
Rogue placed a hand over her chest, touching two fingers to the spot where her heart thundered  
beneath, and then began to slow as she recognized the man in front of her. "I should do what  
more? Get the hell scared right out of me? New form of shock treatment curing us mutants, Mr.  
Summers?"  
  
Scott frowned, lips tipping down. "I was going to say that you should smile more often.  
However, if the acid has to come after you've done so, maybe you should keep that smile to  
yourself."  
  
"Deadly-skin, deadly-grin," Rogue sang sarcastically, crossing her arms over her chest, forgetting  
for a moment that this man was her teacher. He made her feel defensive. "What are you doing out  
here?"  
  
"I should ask you the same question. Oh, yes, but that's right, I'm the adult here. I CAN ask you  
that question. Two nights in a row, Rogue. Don't you think it's a bit dangerous for a young  
woman to be wandering around outside at night?"  
  
Rogue shrugged, looking away from his serious face, over his shoulder where the horizon  
glittered with stars, split only occasionally by a haze of clouds. "I've wandered around in places a  
lot more dangerous than this." She paused, and then said, deliberately, "Mr. Summers."  
  
She smiled when he pursed his lips, sliding his hands into the pockets on his jacket.  
  
"You know what confuses me, Rogue?"  
  
"What's that Sugah?" She asked, crooking an eyebrow.  
  
"The fact that you just can't seem to make friends around here," he said. Rogue's eyes widened,  
and her eyebrow dropped down before she could help it. He nodded. "I've been paying more  
attention to you lately, because you seem... after you came out to see me the other night, you've  
stood out to me, not as a student, but as a possible friend. I said that you'd given me something, a  
gift, and you did. It was kind of you, and you didn't need to do it at all, but still, you did. That's  
what a friend is. Lately, I think we ALL need a friend or two or we're just not going to make it."  
  
"Is this the fearless leader routine that I hear so much about?" Rogue asked, uncomfortable, yet  
again, with the situation she'd gotten herself into.  
  
"Fearless leader? Maybe I just care, Rogue, but I suppose you haven't considered that. After all  
we've been through lately, after all that you've seen of me and with what I've seen of you, in  
dangerous, highly volatile and emotion circumstances, I'm fairly sure we've moved beyond the  
student-teacher relationship. So I don't feel like I'm overstepping my boundaries by telling you  
this."  
  
"What ARE you telling me?" Rogue demanded, stepping back into the moonlight.  
  
Scott closed his mouth, looking at her for a long moment. "I'm trying to tell you that when I look  
at you in a crowded room, you somehow manage to look alone. I'm telling you that it worries  
me, to see someone with your obvious talents, sitting in the back of the class. What I'm *telling*  
you, Rogue, is that when I see you with your friends, I see you faking your way through it. And I  
think that's the reason why just because you happened to share a REAL moment with me last  
week, the type that friendships are made of, you're behaving like a bratty child whenever you're  
around me."  
  
Rogue scoffed, even though she felt like he'd driven a nail into her belly. But he still didn't know  
the half of it. He couldn't. "I'm sorry, but being a teacher doesn't qualify you to make judgments  
about my life. Obviously, you should keep your day job. I have plenty of friends. I'm not that  
same closed off girl you saw when I first came here. And I don't need you for a friend."  
  
Scott's cheek twitched, a sign that he was getting angry.  
  
"You might want to think twice before turning down offers of friendship. They don't come often,  
Rogue, and even less than they do are they even sincere."  
  
"Another lecture, teacher? Or can I be excused from class?" Rogue asked snidely, pivoting on  
her slippered heel, reaching for the door handle. Scott's hand lashed out, grabbing onto her silk  
covered wrist and forcing her to turn back around. Her composure faltered as she saw the look on  
his face. Determination.  
  
"One question, and then you better head up to bed," he said sternly. His eyes were probably  
stone-hard behind his shades. "If I'm not right, and I think I am, just why would you turn down  
my offer of friendship?"  
  
Rogue opened her mouth to respond, but she couldn't think of a response.  
  
"Exactly," Scott said. "I honestly wouldn't mind a friend right now, Rogue."  
  
"I'm just a kid..." she argued, feeling trapped, a fish on a hook. Scott was one of 'them', one of  
the X-Men. She couldn't imagine being friends with him. Especially with what had went on  
recently. Plus, he didn't seem like the type to let things casually go. If he thought she was lying,  
he'd probably call her on it.  
  
"A kid?" Scott shook his head. "Younger than me, sure, but a kid? No, I don't think so. A kid  
wouldn't have helped me. A kid wouldn't have been standing here a few minutes ago, looking  
like she'd just been freed from a cage."  
  
"All this just because I took away your visor?" Rogue muttered, laughing uncomfortably. "Seems  
a bit much."  
  
"All this," Scott clarified, "Because right now, my life is about as bad as it can get. One more  
friend eases the load."  
  
Great. Now she just felt guilty. Sighing, she gave in. "Okay, so what comes along with this  
friendship gig?"  
  
"I don't know." Scott frowned. "I suppose I'm a little short in that department myself. I imagine  
we would talk occasionally?"  
  
"You have friends. Ororo, Xavier..." Rogue trailed off, watching his chin dip down. She didn't  
say Jean, as she'd been about to.  
  
"Not really friends, more like family," he replied quietly.  
  
"We really don't have to be best friends? I mean, I'm not really good at this stuff. I like to keep  
me-stuff... well, for me."  
  
Scott lifted his face again, smiling slightly, but there wasn't much happiness there. "I understand  
that."  
  
"This is strange," Rogue complained, crossing her arms around herself again.   
  
"How so?" He looked genuinely confused.   
  
"I mean, you're light ages older than me. How good of friends could we possibly be?"  
  
Scott smiled, this time for real. "Did you just call me old?"  
  
"Decrepit."  
* * *  
Just because she'd agreed to be friends with him, and it WAS strange to even consider it, didn't  
mean that it was going to happen immediately. This gave her some comfort. It bothered her that  
she was so uneasy about striking up a friendship with someone, but there were real reasons for it.  
The only person she'd really gotten close to were Bobby Drake, and even him, as wonderful as he  
was, she'd kept at a certain distance.  
  
Did Scott really expect her to be 'friends' with him?  
  
It didn't play right in her head. The facts just didn't compute. And yet, she'd agreed, and she'd  
never REALLY broken a promise before. Then again, she hadn't made that many, only had the  
vague sensation of making them, being someone else and never breaking them.  
  
She saw Bobby sitting with Jubilee in the cafeteria. She smiled and headed toward them. Jubilee  
glanced up from the food she'd been picking at, and grinned vapidly at Rogue, giving a little  
wave. Rogue nodded in response and sat down with a plop, her plate snapping against the wood.   
  
Bobby jumped, looking tense. His face melted when he saw her.  
  
"Hey," he said.  
  
"Hey," she replied. "What's wrong?"  
  
Bobby cleared his throat, looking back down at his food. Rogue frowned, reaching out with a  
gloved hand and placing it over his. His shoulders slumped forward, an air of defeat marking  
him, of gravity pulling him under.   
  
Jubilee coughed, before standing. "Wow, look at that big hunk over there, with the real wide  
shoulders? I think I'm gonna go see if he can lift me up." She paused when she'd reached the  
edge of the table and met Rogue's eyes. Rogue mouthed 'thank you.' Jubilee just shrugged,  
raised an eyebrow, and sauntered off in her usual fashion.  
  
"Bobby..."   
  
"Shh." He interrupted her, turning his palm over to squeeze her hand. "Just be here, okay? That's  
all I need."  
  
"But what's-"  
  
Rogue stopped, catching the look on his face. What else could it possibly be? His family. She  
nodded slowly and stroked her finger over the back of his hand. He closed his eyes, and let  
himself be comforted.  
  
'Who's Scott to say I don't have any friends?' Rogue thought. 'Before being my boyfriend,  
before being a potential lover, Bobby's my friend. He's everything.'  
  
She looked away from Bobby's down-turned face, toward the table where she knew the  
'big-kids' would be sitting. Scott looked over at her, a moment later, and gave her a small, sad  
smile. The type made of ashes, of someone burning inside with grief.  
  
She thought of Jean's face, Jean's extraordinary power, and wished she could will her back to  
life. Because watching Scott's face as he went back to eating and talking to Ororo, it was like  
watching a man slip into a mask.  
  
Rogue felt a tear drop onto her hand, and jerked her gaze back to the boy-man before her,  
shivering as the tear seeped through her glove and froze.  
  
Everyone was fucked, she realized, just plain fucked.  
  
And so was she, because Scott was right about one thing. She could love Bobby all she wanted,  
and she was sure she did, but that didn't change the fact that she was scared.   
  
Really. Fucking. Scared.  
* * *  
  
Sleep was a wet thing. She woke up sweating, thinking about how cold Bobby's hands were  
when he was sad. Thinking about how beautiful his lips were. How she wished she could just...  
  
Sleep was a terrible thing.  
  
* * *  
  
One night, a week or two later, after dinner Rogue was passing by her math classroom when she  
noticed light spilling from beneath the door. The shade was drawn, but she found herself peering  
around the crack, drawn toward whatever sight was hidden behind the barrier.  
  
Her heart caught. She felt shamed.  
  
Scott sat against the side of his desk, thighs pulled up against his stomach, forehead down against  
his knees. His shoulders were shaking like an earthquake, jerking back against the desk. Pain. His  
shades lay down by his feet, so she imagined his eyes were squeezed shut. He leaned back,  
banging his head against the wood, covering his face with his hands.  
  
So much *pain*.  
  
She could hear him, just slightly, through the door that separated them, sobbing, choking on air.  
She watched him for a moment longer, feeling like the worst kind of intruder, the type that stared  
at car wrecks, at people dying, at falling buildings. And then she took one step back, then  
another, until she was pressed against the wall opposite the door, holding a palm over her mouth.  
  
Fearless leader, right? Not exactly. She couldn't hear him anymore, but her ears throbbed with  
the sound of his heartache. Dammit, why did she have to care? There had been a time when  
nothing had mattered but keeping her skin covered and making it to the next town by sundown.  
Things had changed. There was Bobby, sometimes Jubilee and Kitty, and now... well now there  
was her math teacher, Mr. Summers... Scott.  
  
He'd asked for a friend. And she'd been avoiding actually living up to that request. But now,  
having witnessed the very true need that had made him reach out, she felt like a rat. Or a bug that  
needed to be squashed beneath a boot heel. Rogue closed her eyes and tucked the streak of white  
hair behind her ear.  
  
Yeah, Scott Summers had asked for a friend. And it was the least she could do.  
* * *  
Logan took her shopping the next day, after grunting at her to hop in the car. *Scott's* car.  
Scott's very *expensive* car. He hadn't really explained himself, but she hadn't really expected  
him to. That was Logan's way. All gruff orders and not quite soft insides.  
  
She didn't mind.  
  
It had just stopped raining a few hours ago, and the sky had cleared up to a nice dark blue, misted  
only by the occasional string of gray cloud. The buildings in town were wet and gray from the  
previous shower, but carried the scent of drying bricks, of water evaporating. Maybe a little of  
starting over too. It was the type of smell that got her every time, made her hunger for a train  
ticket out of there. Just because new things could taste so sweet, and it was hard to imagine a life  
where she never experienced that exciting twinge of newness again.  
  
Rogue stared through the wide window of a clothing shop, a frown on her face. "You really  
didn't have to do this," she admonished him. "You sticking around a few weeks has been strange  
enough without you turning into my big brother."  
  
Logan shrugged casually, shoulders hunching beneath his jacket as he glanced around them, eyes  
surveying the small town they'd driven into. Sometimes, when he behaved just like that, she  
could remember why she'd had such a crush on him not so long ago. Who wouldn't be slightly  
attracted to a man who had a bit of animal in him?   
  
"Well, kid, we haven't spent all that much time together since I've been back. I've actually felt a  
little like you've been avoiding me, which has been hell on my ego. And I don't want the blame  
for it further down the road if we don't talk at all while I'm here. Figured we'd shoot some pool  
or something after to make up for this torture you call shopping."  
  
"Sorry," she said, wincing. Animal indeed. "I didn't think you'd notice."  
  
Logan grunted. "You used to crawl all over me for attention. 'Course I'd notice."  
  
Rogue laughed out loud. "I crawled all over you? Hardly. I had a crush. It got gone. But as an  
excuse for my poor manners-I am southern after all, so I DO have them-Bobby has issues about  
you."  
  
Logan brought his gaze down to her face, a look of interest crinkling his brow. "What kind of  
'issues?'"  
  
Rogue shrugged casually, tossing her hair back in the way Jubilee had taught her one late night  
when they'd first gotten to know each other. "Insanely jealous issues. It's because of that very  
small crush on you I once had. I didn't figure on picking at that wound of his all that much. He'll  
have to get over it eventually, but you'll be gone soon enough, and right now he's... he shouldn't  
have to face anything but what's going on in his own head, ya know?"  
  
Logan frowned, scratching the side of his face, just beside the hair on his cheek. "No more  
crawling all over me? Damn, and I was just getting used to it, Marie."  
  
"You better shut your mouth before I punch you in it," Rogue warned, eyeballing him. "And stop  
calling me 'Marie.'"  
  
"Sure thing." A pause, and then he curved his handsome mouth into a smirk. "Marie."   
She flicked him a telling glance, before stalking to the door of the shop and jerking it open,  
storming inside.  
  
"Time of the month?" Logan called after her, voice ringing out far too loudly.  
  
Rogue smiled secretly into her hand, before she closed the door firmly behind her and left him  
out on the sidewalk. It was good to have him hanging around, if only for a little while. And if she  
sometimes caught a stinging sadness on his face, well, at least he hid it better than the others. She  
needed him to hide it. She was sick, plainly and fiercely, of all the sadness. Maybe it made her  
petty, maybe it made her a lot of things, but she wanted it to go away.  
  
Inside, the store smelled like darkly scented candles. It was draped in purple and black crushed  
velvet, with the occasional splash of vivacious red that stood out like the lenses on Scott's nose  
in a room full of people with plain faces. Rogue shivered in remembrance, rubbing her  
silk-shielded fingers over her elbows, as she began to look around at what the shop offered on its  
racks.  
  
Logan entered a moment later, having crushed the tip of his cigar, slipping it into his sagging  
shirt pocket. She pretended to ignore him as he stood impatiently by the door, shifting from one  
foot to another, making hurry-up noises in his throat. Rogue sifted through the shirts on one of  
the racks, wishing she could feel the texture of their cloth beneath her fingers, but it was too  
dangerous to take her gloves off in public. At least in a place like this, most people would just  
consider her covered body an odd fashion choice. She had a brief thought of how it must be for  
Scott, who could never hide what he was, who had it sitting right on the tip of his nose. Literally.  
  
Shrugging, she moved toward another rack, when something caught her eye. A glint of sunlight  
flashing on a silver scarf, lying in a pile of several others like it, various colors and styles.  
Curious, she walked over to it, drawn by the translucent way it glittered. Picking it up, she laid it  
across her palm and rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. A vague notion began to tickle  
the back of her brain, like an oncoming sneeze. She wrinkled her nose as it began to evolved into  
something more, turning into a slow burning idea that had her heart hitching like someone had  
stuck a hook into it.   
  
Carefully, Rogue pinched the tip of the thumb on her left glove between her fingers and began  
tugging it from her arm. The familiar material slid away like a ghost that haunted her, such a  
small thing to protect the people around her... and herself from what was in their heads.  
  
Logan appeared at her side, eyebrows raised. He looked distinctly pleased. "Finally figured out  
that being a mutant doesn't doom you to a life of gothic-living?"  
  
Rogue shook her head, staring intently at the scarf laying in her now bare hand. The material was  
soft, smooth, and very, very thin. When she closed her fingers around it, she could feel the heat  
and texture of her skin. "Not exactly." Turning to him, she smiled hesitantly.   
  
"What?" He demanded gruffly, looking down at her.  
  
"Do you trust me?" She asked, clutching the scarf in her hand, swallowing convulsively.  
  
"Depends."  
  
Rogue nodded. Fair enough. "Because I kinda need to test something out, and well, you're here."  
Before he could step back, or say anything at all, Rogue touched his forearm with only the silver  
scarf separating their skin. She sucked in her breath and squeezed her eyes closed. Couldn't bare  
to watch. Logan barely flinched, even though his eyes did bulge briefly in his head.   
  
A moment passed, infinite in its stillness. Rogue forced herself to open her eyes, blinking  
quickly. She met Logan's gaze, who was staring at her in worry, and then dragged her stare down  
to where her hand sat on the scarf, and beneath, she could feel the exact texture of his forearm. It  
was like being skin to skin... without the part where she sucked the life out of him.  
  
"You might want to warn a guy before you use him as a test subject," Logan muttered roughly,  
but he was smiling crookedly at her.  
  
Rogue only pulled her hand slowly back to herself, curling her fingers into her palm, and  
pressing the fist to her rolling stomach.  
  
"Hey. You okay, kid?"   
  
"Fine," she whispered. Thought of Bobby. "I'm gonna be just fine."  
  
Over Logan's shoulder, the sun struck the roof of the building across the street, streaking into her  
face, blinding her for just an instant.   
* * *  
A human heart beat 2 Billion times in an average lifetime.   
  
Because she was mutant, did that mean it beat more? It was throbbing now, in edgy anticipation.  
They'd been talking lately, about taking steps toward intimacy.  
  
Bobby had said, in that hoarse voice: "I need to kiss you again, Rogue. I don't care if you hurt  
me."  
  
This was a step. A small, almost useless step. But one all the same.  
  
Rogue knocked on his bedroom door, fingers trembling beneath her gloves. She heard his  
footsteps approaching, saw his shadow stretch out beneath the crack between the door and the  
floor, falling over her legs. Swallowed once and tried to smile. He opened the door, his grin of  
welcome immediately falling away as he took in the expression on her face.  
  
"What's wrong?" He asked, wearing the panic-look: round eyes, parted lips, and pale cheeks.   
  
"This," she whispered, voice quiet because she couldn't seem to make herself speak loudly. She  
reached up and placed the scarf over the lower half of his face, startling him. He asked a question  
with his eyes that she didn't answer; instead she leaned toward him and placed her lips carefully  
over his. Bobby went still, eyes still wide open and on hers.  
  
She kissed him slowly, gently, just pressing her mouth onto his over and over again. A moment  
later, when he hadn't yet responded, Rogue dropped back down on her heels and took a step  
back, watching him for any sign of what he could be thinking. Her ears were burning, anxiety  
taking a heavy swing at her stomach, like a battering ram.  
  
Bobby peeled the scarf from his jaw, irises glittering darkly, and stepped right into her space,  
laying the scarf across her face and kissing her with the fierceness of someone long denied. His  
lips were hard on hers through the silk, peeling hers apart, and she found herself wrapping her  
arms around his waist, straining to get closer. Her gut jolted when she felt his tongue against her  
bottom lip, and then against her teeth, pushing inside her mouth and touching her own.  
  
She could *feel* him.  
  
Taste...  
  
Her eyes fell shut, and a sound came from the back of her throat, unheard by them both, lost in  
the nowhere space between their mouths.  
  
End (1/15)  
  
Next chapter coming soon. 


	2. Chapter Two: Scott

Disclaimers, notes, and warnings in chapter one.

  


Chapter Two Beta Readers: A.J. and Laura. Thank you for two being so incredible and taking me under your wings.

  


Chapter Two

  
  


Scott became sick of the looks fast. People walked on eggshells around him, like he was a time bomb and if they stepped in one place too hard, he'd explode, taking them all down with him. Grief was a vindictive beast. Every time they looked at him that way, with their faces shaded by knowledge of just how BAD he was hurting, grief reared up and sank its teeth into his heart, thrusting its rusty knife into his stomach, and he'd have to turn away. He'd have to close his eyes and put himself in another time when it hadn't been like this.

  


That time was getting further and further away from him. A grain of sand that escaped each day, and he mourned for every single one. Every glance of hers that he remembered, a punch in the gut that he wouldn't give up for anything. And if the hallways seemed a little too long, with all the people crowding around him and staring with those eyes that said 'sorry' so often, then maybe he could take it, and they could just stop already.

  


Scott sat at the desk of the room he and Jean had once shared, with nothing to grade and nothing to plan. A pen hung from his limp fingers as he leaned back in the desk chair, staring at the ceiling. It swung back and forth, a pendulum that followed the beat of his heart. He took a breath, swallowing air into his lungs, and waited for yet another moment to pass. The seconds were long. 

Wolverine had said something like that to him the other day.

  


"Cyke," he had grunted, pushing his food around on the plate. "You've just gotta stick to the second hand. An hour is too long right now."

  


Strange, to have Wolverine speak of grief, and still feel the slight sting of jealousy that had no place any longer. He'd loved Jean as well. There was no doubt about it. Except there was a difference between them. Wolverine, Logan, whatever he called himself these days, didn't know what he was missing.

  


Scott did. Remembered. Every second was spent missing it. But couldn't they stop looking at him like that? It didn't make it better. It didn't make the truth any easier to bear and it certainly didn't make any of it go away.

  


Jean was dead. 

And at night, he could still smell her on the pillows. Visceral, sweet, the scent made him hungry for someone that was no longer there to be hungered for.

  


* * *

  


Mornings were blue, quiet creatures. 

A noise would pull Scott from sleep; a scent, or a feeling in his stomach, and he would've forgotten already that she wasn't there in bed beside him. 

Every morning was finding out all over again. His hand would stretch toward her side of the bed, a habit learned long ago, and there wasn't soft skin to be stroked anymore. He couldn't move the hair out of her eyes and kiss her awake.

  


Today was no different. He opened his eyes, realizing he was holding onto a pillow. The wall on the other side of the room confronted his gaze, tainted red, the only color he ever saw. 

  


One heartbeat, and he remembered. Slammed his eyes shut and tucked the pillow close to his chest, shoving his nose into it. Here, he cried. Here, he didn't have a choice. A pinpoint of light arched through the room, and when he opened his eyes a long time later, it was time to get out of bed.

  


The clock stared at him as he pushed the covers from of his body, crawling off the mattress and stumbling toward the bathroom connected to his bedroom. *His* now. Just his. He lifted his shades, keeping his eyes closed, and wiped the drying tears from his cheeks. Set the glasses back down on his nose, behind which the beginnings of a headache throbbed.

Scott began his ritual. Shaving. Showering. Avoiding looking too closely at his own face. It became easier to live within the boundaries of everyday activities, going through the motions. It was like he was living, but never really, and why should he? Hadn't known. Jean was always able to keep things from him. He'd never even had a chance to save her, not when she didn't want him to. 

  


But no. Don't think of that. He scraped the razor over his cheek, pressing down on the skin of his jaw to make sure it was taut, shaving the stubble off his face. A bit of lather fell from his chin, dripping onto the sink. Scott eyed it, irritated, before setting the razor down onto the porcelain and reaching for a wet washcloth, dabbing the surface clean.

  


It was obsessive. It was compulsive. Just the thing that had always driven Jean crazy. Scott took his hand away from the towel. His fingers curled into his palm, forming a fist that he slammed into the porcelain. Pain slapped up his arm, stinging the tips of his fingers, biting into his elbow and shoulder.

  


Real. Physical. It'd go away one day.

  


*One day*.

After Scott had taken a quick shower (still hadn't taken her shampoo and soaps out of the bathtub) and dried off, he escaped the steam-filled bathroom, shaking slightly in the chillier air of his bedroom. A towel was wrapped around his hips, but it did little to warm him. Not much warmed him now. Even the few stray drops of hot water that clung to his body were fast cooling. He briefly thought of Bobby Drake, Rogue's boyfriend, and wondered how he tolerated the cold.

  


Thoughts of Bobby brought to mind thoughts of Rogue, and he considered her while he dressed. Underwear first, socks second, and then the pants. She'd been something of a comfort, not quite behaving like the others around him, not quite wearing the same look. It was strange how a girl he hadn't paid that much attention to before (hadn't ignored or not seen or even not talked to), who had existed in the background of his life like the pattern on the wallpaper, that girl who'd been there when his lover died, had been able to offer the first true moment of comfort in this entire month since Jean had been gone.

  


It was almost ironic, and if he'd been inclined to laugh, he would have. The girl with the deadly skin, never allowed to get close to anyone, had been able to perfectly gauge what would make him feel better, if only for a little while. By the next day, he'd come to a small realization about himself. He needed a friend. So, considering she'd been the only one to comfort him, he'd made that clear to her. She hadn't exactly welcomed him into her life with open arms, leaving him to feel like the strange older man, trying to hang out with the kids to make himself feel younger. Then again, he wasn't that old, and Rogue was... *Rogue*. And being Rogue, even if she had nearly agreed that they would make decent friends, she had still managed to slip through the cracks of his life these past weeks.

  


Shaking his head, Scott buttoned up his shirt, methodically closing the halves and slipping a tie around his neck, thinking *nothing*. Without realizing it, he was looking at the half open closet door, where a single suit of Jean's could be seen. 

  


Ping. 

  


An ache that never really quit, but sometimes just stayed glued to his backbone and allowed him to function on the everyday tasks that life required of him. What was it that Rogue had called him? 'Fearless Leader.' Yes, he had to be. If not that... then what?

No answer came, and Scott strode to the closet, sure that he would slam the door shut. But when he got there his fingers froze on the doorknob, and all he could do was stare at the clothes he'd watched her accumulate. It was a wardrobe, an outfit for every occasion. They didn't smell like her: instead they carried the scent of soap and sunny days. But they looked like her, felt like her, had been worn by her.

  


He pictured her face, smiling up at him as they made love.

  


Scott didn't move for a very long time.

  
  


* * *

  


"Hey..."

  


Scott turned at the slightly hesitant, familiar voice that had called out from behind him as he walked toward the rec room. Rogue stood by a table overflowing with stacks of aging magazines, her hand on the back of a wooden chair. She must have been sitting there when he passed, his mind a million miles away, or maybe only a hundred, buried beneath a mile or so of water.

  


"Rogue," he said in greeting, offering her a tired smile. "I didn't see you at dinner."

  


"No... I..." Rogue shook her head, blushing slightly. He wondered why, until he saw her glance down the hall, toward the boys' rooms. 

  


"Wasn't really very hungry." Deliberately, she looked back toward him, firming her jaw. "I've been meaning to talk to ya."

  


Scott raised his eyebrows, and then turned fully, facing her with his body as well as his face. "Well, my attention is all yours." 

  


He saw her swallow, before she gestured to the other chair at the table she'd been sitting at. Scott took a hint, as well as a seat, pushing a few magazines to the side so that he could thread his fingers together and rest them on the table. There, he waited, while she sat down herself and for a moment, just stared at him with the look she had that the others didn't. Not like he was gonna break, but that maybe he'd do just the opposite and turn to stone before her.

  


While she gathered courage for whatever she had to say (was he really that frightening to her?), Scott glanced down at the magazines he'd shifted out of the way. A little shocked to find that the cover story of one was about research being made into rare skin diseases, although he shouldn't be. After all, for a long time, he'd been reasearching his own mutation, cataloguing articles and creating his own personal library.

  


"Rogue," he began, uneasy.

  


She shook her head, the white streak Magnento had left catching the dull yellow glow of the lamp sitting in the center of the table.

  


"I've been thinking about what you said," Rogue spoke at last, looking at him seriously, with eyes too old for her face. "About needing friends. Especially in a time like this. And you're right. I've just been... it seems strange, the idea of being friends with one of ya'll. I'm better at watching from afar, ya know?"

  


He didn't, but nodded anyway.

  


Rogue continued, "I've been meaning to talk to ya. But there was that idolization thing to get past, you being an X-Man and all... Well, after that, I'm just not very good at being a friend, so you'll have to understand that. Okay?" 

  


Scott only stared at her, vaguely amused at her rambling. No eggshells here. "I'm fairly sure I can live with that."

  


He could live with a lot of things. Deal? Not as many.

  


"Good," she said, dipping her chin decisively. "Now, with that cleared away, I figure that you want to be friends with me for a reason, and I'm really curious why."

  


Scott looked away from her, over her shoulder, where he caught a glimpse of Wolverine standing with a beer in his hand, the other pushing the curtains aside to stare out the window, up at the moon. And then the man had moved away again, vanishing around a corner, leaving the curtains open, and the moon shining in. Distracted, he dragged his gaze back to Rogue, who was waiting for an answer, a curious expression on her face.

  


"You helped me. That's a good start to friendship, I think. Don't you?"

  


Rogue blinked at him. "Well, yeah, I guess it is."

  


"There you go."

  


"Hmph." Rogue curled her eyebrows together, wrinkling her nose. "This is still kinda strange, but I'll let that go. I have something for you."

  


Scott frowned when she began rummaging around on the tables, making the scent of old magazines stronger as she fumbled with the stacks, searching for whatever it is that she wanted to give him. 

  


"Something for me?" He asked, confused, eyeing her studious expression as she searched.

  


"Yeah, something that made me think of you the other day when I was reading it," Rogue replied, finally shoving at one stack of magazines. It fell over, landing with a flop of slapping pages, onto the floor. She didn't seem concerned about it, but it was in his nature to bend down and pick them up. When he sat straight again, placing the magazines onto the table in front of him, he found her smiling at him and holding something to her stomach.

  


"What?" 

  


"Here," she said, handing him a book. Scott looked at her, and then down at the aged gray cover, streaked with dust. 

  


"I was in the library," she explained, while he ran his finger over the title engraved into the book, written in gold. "Reading up on some..." she stumbled over her words, before finishing with a careful, "Things."

  


"T.S. Eliot," Scott said, lifting his gaze to hers.

  


Rogue nodded, reaching out to touch just the edge of the binding, grazing her gloved finger across it. "I know it seems like a strange thing to give you but... He understands grief. Sometimes that's enough, I think."

  


Scott's lips moved, but he found himself unable to respond. Yeah. Sometimes it was exactly enough. "Thanks," he said at last, pushing the words past his dry throat. "Don't get into the habit of giving me things, though. I'm not very good at receiving gifts."

  


Rogue laughed. A small, dry chuckle. "It's not like I bought it or anything. I just found it. You're gonna have to return it when you're done with it." She lowered her eyes, looking at her fingers as they plied each other. "*If* you get done with it. I won't tell that you have it if you don't."

  


Scott tucked the book beneath his arm and stood. Rogue looked up at him in surprise, wearing *that* face.

  


"I'm better at keeping secrets than people think," he said, before casually chucking her beneath the chin, too quickly for her to stop him or for her mutation to snap out and suck his life away. "Thanks for the book."

  


He turned, once again walking toward the rec room, the book heavy at his side. 

  


* * *

  


Scott was reading the book Rogue had given to him when Xavier's voice abruptly filled his head, making him jerk out of his chair and nearly knock over the lit candle on the desk. He dropped the book so he could stop the candle from tumbling and starting a fire. It landed with a heavy thump on the floor.

  


"Sorry about that," Xavier's voice said, hollow and amused in Scott's ears. Scott glared at the wall through his glasses, waiting. "Anyway, I'd like to speak with you. Do you think you could come to my office?"

  


"When?" Scott asked in his thoughts.

  


"If you're available, now would be a suitable time," came the professor's reply, the amusement gone from his voice. Now it was somber, a tone Scott was growing quickly irritated of. "I assure you it will only take a moment."

  


Scott nodded, even though the professor wasn't there to see him do so. "I'll be right there," he replied in his head. 

"Thank you." 

  


He felt it when Xavier's presence was gone from his mind. With a frustrated shake of his head, even though he loved the man dearly, Scott bent down and picked up the book he'd dropped, noticing that it had fallen open. A phrase written on the page before him caught his eye.

  


"...The memory throws up high and dry. A crowd of twisted things..." Scott read aloud, a line between his eyebrows. Staring at the words, his lips curled up into a bitter smile. Nothing but the truth there. Scott was a man of duty, who wanted to help people, who had a cause. And yet, memory stalked him. Memory was stealing him.

  


Feeling sick at heart, Jean's face before his eyes, he closed the book and set it onto his desk, avoiding looking at the bed and its rumpled sheets as he passed it. Everywhere there were memories. Still... Scott wasn't sure he wanted to escape them. It had only been a month. A very *long* month.

  


Xavier had his wheel chair rolled over to the window when Scott knocked quietly, and peered around the door into the office. Xavier waved him in with his thin white hand, never turning to see who it was. Of course he knew. Scott felt tense, standing there behind Xavier's back, as the older mutant looked out at the night sky with an odd look of wonder on his face.

  


"You know," Xavier said in a tone meant to ease Scott's tension. "I've never quite believed in space travel. Yes, I know it's old news and with all that I've seen, I should be able to accept it. I'll tell myself that and then I'll look up into the night sky and see how vast it really is, how extreme and untouchable, and I won't believe all over again. In my head, I know it exists... but my heart, well my dear boy, it just doesn't want to see something so beautiful conquered."

Scott remained quiet as he listened, looking out the window himself, where above the line of trees, stars pricked small glittering holes in the night sky. The wind shifted the branches, breaking his view for a moment, before the stars were back within his view. In his head, there was a litany of explanations for why they twinkled, why they seemed to throb. He could recite the names of constellations and knew that stars weren't that extraordinary, only gaseous blimps, fireballs hanging nowhere. In his head, he knew this, but Scott felt like a child staring at the hugeness of the universe.

  


"Yes, it is beautiful, isn't it?" Xavier asked rhetorically, even though Scott hadn't spoken his thoughts out loud.

  


"Very," Scott replied, pushing his hands into the pockets of his pants. "Why did you ask me here?"

  


Xavier sighed, looking for another moment at the sky, with something like longing on his face. And then he gripped the wheels of his chair and maneuvered himself, turning it so that he was facing Scott, standing so tall and yet slumping so low, in the middle of his office. Scott fought to keep any revealing thoughts out of his head, fought to hide the true depth of his misery. If Xavier knew, he might ask Scott to take a break, or worse, go away until he could handle the idea of working on a team without Jean on it. Thinking of that brought thoughts of the X-Men's first mission since Jean's death, of the empty seat, of how fucking HARD...

  


"My poor boy," Xavier whispered sadly, breaking through the wall in Scott's mind. "You musn't force yourself to be so strong. That comes naturally. It's the grieving that's the hard part for you." 

Scott stiffened, gutted.

  


He didn't let it show, just clenched his jaw and took his hands from where they were bunched in the pockets, locking them behind his back. Like a soldier. So Xavier, the man he looked up to as something like a father, who could read minds and sometimes hearts, was going to take a crack at it as well? His heart pinched. He couldn't just get over it and make it easy for the people around him. Jean was DEAD. Gone. Couldn't they understand that he needed time? And that, at the end of the day, he didn't want to forget, he wanted to remember her.

  


"So you should," Xavier said, responding to the thoughts in Scott's head. "I understand that people coddling you isn't what you want, Scott, but you must understand that they worry for you. It's their natural reaction. Not everyone can be as insightful as our dear Rogue."

  


Scott's jaw cracked as he fought not to speak. Fought not to *think*.

  


"I brought you here, not to tell you to let Jean go, but to speak to you about certain arrangements. I know you've been waiting for her..." Professor Xavier paused, as if searching for a delicate way to put it. "Body to be found, but it's been a month, Scott. Jean deserves to be put to rest. She needs some form of official services preformed for her."

  


"I..." Scott bit his lip, looking down at his feet. His shoes shone. He'd been more obsessive about them lately, polishing the scuffmarks singlemindedly. That didn't need any psychoanalyzing when it was very obvious why. A man with very little else to focus on but the death of his lover had to focus on menial tasks to keep sane. 

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure what I..."

  


"There is no need to apologize," Xavier admonished quietly. He gripped the arms of his wheelchair, leaning forward. "If you would like, I'll take care of the necessary arrangements. It's time, Scott. There must be something done."

  


The Grandfather clock in the corner of the office suddenly chimed eleven bittersweet times. Scott glanced at it while swallowing down the truth. Xavier was right. Jean deserved something, and he'd put it off for far too long.

  


"No," he said. "I'll take care of everything. But... right now I'd just really like to go to bed."

  


Xavier nodded, only a gracious dip of his chin. Scott turned, walking past the still chiming clock, counting away the seconds that never stopped slipping away from him. 

Wolverine had told him to stick with the second hand, but maybe that piece of advice was no longer helpful. Because now it felt like he was constantly on the move, jumping from one second to another with no time to sit, breathe, and just love her.

  


* * *

As it turned out, Scott couldn't sleep at all. Trying to was a fitful process of kicking at the covers, glaring at the ceiling, fluffing and re-fluffing his pillows, all while cursing himself for ever caring about anything, much less something as impermanent as a human life. A giant hole sat in his chest, throbbing hollowly every time the numbers on the digital clock changed and the hour grew later. 

Throb. In red, of course. He watched the clock for a long time, a tick at the corner of his mouth, his hand heavy on the space beside him.

  


Sweat dripped into his eyes, a sting of salt that made him flinch, slap at his eye socket. Did they have to keep it so hot in here? He wiped it away angrily, scraping his palm along his face, and then shoving his hand beneath the pillow, pressing his face against its surface and inhaling. Her scent was fading. 

  


There was a glass of water on his dresser, half-empty from when he'd guzzled it down to wet his parched throat. It was probably room temperature by now, tasting like the stale air around him. He swallowed, throat dry once more. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't *sleep*. He thought of opening a window, letting in the breeze, but he knew that soon enough instead of being too hot, it would be too cool.

  


The bathroom door creaked. Hot sound. Burning in his ears.

  


Was this what Xavier said? Him fighting grief?

  


After about an hour's struggle toward unconsciousness, he gave up, throwing the covers off his body and lunging angrily from the bed. His mind was fat with too many things for sleep to come. He was jumpy, heart itching like something gaping open with flies crawling around inside it. Like something dying and waiting for it all to end.

  


Heated, flushed, Scott tugged on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, not bothering with socks or shoes. Struggled with the button on his pants, sucking in his gut, staring down at his fumbling fingers. He needed *out* of the bedroom that held so many memories. Skin on skin, an arm around his waist, her flesh wrapped around his. Her lips. Her sweet tongue in his mouth, twisting against his teeth. Fading, that taste. Stuck to the roof of his mouth where he couldn't quite catch it anymore.

It was a swift change of heart, this need to be away when he had fought so hard to hold onto even the smallest, most insignificant moment he'd had with her. Torn, that's what he was, between wanting to remember... and tonight, this absolute *need* to forget. So swift it took away his hard earned equilibrium. He needed order. Balance. He had nothing.

  


Xavier'd said he was strong. 

Well, he didn't *feel* strong: he felt as weak as an infant, struggling to walk a straight line toward his the door without falling over.

The floor was somehow cool on Scott's bare feet as he walked the hallway. Heat rose, so it made sense, but his toes didn't appreciate the science. He should have put socks on. To be truthful with himself, he should be still trying to go to sleep. The ghosts would still be there when he returned, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about that. 

He couldn't run from it. At least if he had stayed, he would have tangled with them sooner, and had it over with. But still, cold toes and all, he didn't feel ready to be back there, wrestling with the sheets and other, more untouchable things.

  


Scott found himself outside of Rogue's room, hand balled into a fist, knocking. He licked his bottom lip as he waited, tasting left over tears, the struggle of sleep and sweat. His stomach muscles clenched as the door opened to him. Jubilee stood there wearing a yellow shirt, boxers, and an angry, fuck-you-for-waking-me expression on her face. When she saw who it was, her eyes widened. Scott shifted uncomfortably, wearing a tense mask that felt all too familiar.

  


"Mr. Summers! Something's wrong isn't it? Someone's dead!"

  


"What?" He heard Rogue screech from somewhere inside the room. "Who?! Oh God!"

  


Scott rubbed a tired hand over his forehead, pushing hair away from the skin and scowling at the girl before him. "Nothing's wrong, Jubilee. I'd just like to speak with Rogue, if I could."

  


Jubilee stopped panicking, closing her mouth and considering him closely. Like he was a bug under the microscope, Scott fought not to squirm. Rogue appeared behind Jubilee, peering over her shoulder with a frown.

  


"Scott?" A question - what the hell are *you* doing here this late?

"Yes, I thought so myself," he replied testily. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. But considering it hadn't been an idea at all, simply an impulse (which he wasn't used to following), it didn't surprise him overmuch that he was already regretting it. "But the way Jubilee keeps staring at me is beginning to make me wonder."

  


"J.," Rogue muttered, pushing Jubilee aside. "It's okay. He's not here to molest me." 

Jubilee gave Scott one last look before sauntering off, somewhere behind the door where he couldn't see. Scott's eyebrows shot up in response to Rogue's last statement.

  


She glared. "What? You'd rather I told her ya wanted to?"

  


Scott blinked, shuffling his feet, before shaking his head. "Ah, no, actually. I'd rather you didn't." He looked down the empty hallway where he'd come from. The window sat at the end, black and sleek with the night outside. A set of curtains twisted around it, hungry. Scott met her curious eyes again, draped in a few errant strands of what Jean had told him was white-shocked hair. Just a few chunks of it, curving around her cheeks. "I imagine you're wondering what I'm doing here."

  


"The thought did cross my mind," Rogue admitted, a slight twang to her voice. "Just once or twice."

Scott smiled ruefully, feeling some of the tension drain from him. For that alone, he stopped regretting. He untucked his hands from his pockets and held one out toward the hallway, taking a step back from her door. "You up for a walk?"

  


Rogue pursed her lips, holding onto the edge of the door. He noticed that her hands were bare, nails painted some color that he would never see. And then she nodded, not looking any less confused. "Let me get my shoes."

  


Other words she didn't have to say: 'And my gloves.'

  


Scott waited, arms at his side, facing her closed door. An image of himself standing there flashed in his head, the lonely older man hanging around outside the a girl-woman's bedroom, tapping his thumbs against his hipbone while she dressed. It would probably look strange to everyone else, like something it wasn't. Scott wasn't sure he cared.

He looked up when she opened the door again, slipping past and shutting it behind her. She was wearing a jean jacket, her hands curled inside them, gloved-fingers peeking out, curving around the material and tugging nervously.

Rogue met his eyes, looking worried. "So, what's wrong?"

  


He thought of the world, frowning. "Pretty much everything."

  


She eyed him strangely for a moment before shaking her head and slipping her hands free from where she'd been grabbing at the cuffs of her jacket. They walked down the hallway, past the other closed doors with light peering from their cracks, past the table with the half broken vase that had been pieced together by Kitty, who had knocked it over. Its glue was apparent, fleshy between the cracks in the hardened clay. The flowers in the vase were black with the shadows, but their smell flattened the air, making room for itself. 

  


Rogue was quiet, waiting.

  


Scott didn't speak until they'd stepped outside into the slightly cool northern air. His bare toes flexed against the cement steps, getting accustomed to the feel. He could feel her by his side, tense with nervous energy. He was surprised she could hold that much inside her and not bounce off the walls. And yet, another part of him wasn't shocked at all. For one thing, Rogue was a very closeted person. She must hold things within herself all the time; after all, her walls had grown pretty thick. He had a few walls of his own. 

  


He understood exactly how much pressure they could stand.

  


His lover was dead. Those walls were cracked, but they were still standing, even if Scott sometimes heard them rumbling like there were going to fall at any moment.

  


The door snapped closed behind them, abrupt and chilling, breaking the companionable silence they had been idling in. Scott rubbed his palms together, feeling the breeze twine through his fingers, plucking at his uncombed hair and lifting it from his forehead.

  


"What's your favorite color?" Rogue asked suddenly, as if she couldn't think of anything else. He stared at her blankly for a moment, thinking she was kidding. When it became obvious that she wasn't going to retract her question, he lifted a single eyebrow and made a listless gesture toward the visor he'd quickly put on. They were heavier than the glasses he liked to wear, which were much more compact and less obtrusive. The visor stood out, and even though it fit his nose perfectly, it was still uncomfortable.

  


Rogue's nose wrinkled and she sliced her palm impatiently through the air. "Before that," she said, agitated. "You must have had a favorite color before your mutation." She paused. Thought. "Or was it..."

  


"Red?" Scott put in before she could speak. "No. Ironic, isn't it? I always thought it was." He peered out over the walls, remembering the many, many times when he had rose up over them in the plane, preparing to go risk his life for the peace between mutants and humans. Lines of stars tickled the horizon, glittering fiercely as he looked on. "Actually, I've always loved silver." A small, wistful smile tilted his mouth. It was nearly a frown. "I loved the look of it. Glittering, but not gaudy like gold."

  


"It's a very pretty color," Rogue agreed, nodding her head. There was something wise and sad on her face, like she was speaking to a child. He wondered at it, this ability of hers to change faces like they were masks. He was suddenly out of his depth with her, not knowing her at all, but wanting to. 

  


"What about you?" he asked, trying to keep the strangely cliche conversation going. The curve of her mouth answered him, a piece of hair caught at its edge. She just shook her head, taking her gaze away from his face and turning it toward the sky, looking for... *something*. Now that he could understand. Always looking for something more, but never really being sure about what that might be. An absence. 

A car passed out on the road, its exhaust loud and grumbling. They both tensed when they heard it, a white noise spreading through their chests as they watched the beam of the head lights bounce off the walls of the school. Things were so dangerous for mutants now. Slowly, the rumbling died away as the car passed, neither stopping or slowing down. 

  


They both sighed, in relief and quiet understanding of just what they'd been fearing. That was all it took now, a single car, passing in the middle of the night.

  


"Red," she said eventually, after a long silence had passed and he had given up on her ever answering. "It's red."

  


"I live my life in red."

  


Red sky, red stars, red horizons, and a red Rogue standing beside him.

  


Her eyes, on his, old again. "I know. I'm sorry."

  


"What are you apologizing for?"

  


"You know how you said everything was wrong earlier?" Rogue asked, waiting for his nod. The wind picked up her hair, much as it had done his own, tossing it against her face. She fought the tugging with her gloved fingers, holding the errant strands flat against her cheek. "Mostly that."

  


"I couldn't sleep," Scott confessed, puffing out his breath. It wasn't cold enough to see the air leave his lungs like white powder, but he could imagine the months passing by in a blur of summer days, falling leaves, and crawling winter suns until it *was* that cold. He could imagine being without Jean for that long would drive him crazy. He suddenly wished for a jacket to cover his arms instead of the goose bumps that coated them now. "I had a conversation with Professor Xavier tonight. It's been on my mind ever since... and I just... couldn't sleep."

  


"What did he speak with you about?" she inquired, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like he'd just eaten peanut butter. 

  


"Certain arrangements," Scott muttered in a low voice, pushing the words past his clogged throat. He heard her shift beside him, a rustle of clothes and a soft sigh that made him wonder if she somehow already knew. "I've neglected to make any firm decisions regarding them. And it's... time. But I don't know how I'm going to deal with them."

  


"About Jean?" she asked quietly. "I've wondered about that."

  


Scott nodded, thinking that he'd been wondering a lot about that himself. "That makes two of you and counting. Do you think I should have had services performed by now?"

Rogue looked at him sharply, in surprise. "Me? I don't really... Scott, I don't know. If you're asking me if I think she deserves some sort of ceremony, I'm gonna tell ya yes, but I didn't know her as well as you did. It's been a month..."

  


"I know!" Scott growled, spearing his fingers through his hair in frustration. Abruptly jerking into motion, he stalked down the steps away from her. "I know that already, but I wanted to find her first... I wanted to be able to look at her, and tell her goodbye! She didn't let me. She was able to talk to me, through Xavier, but it's not the same."

  


Rogue stayed on the steps, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, indecision written all over her face. He stopped a few feet away, glaring at the same horizon he'd been admiring moments before. And then, slowly, his head dropped down on his neck and he looked at his bare feet, the grass sticking up between his toes. Tears burned behind his nose, building up, making his entire head ache. Scott swallowed convulsively, trying to bring himself under control.

  


After a long moment, he heard her clear her throat, and then there was the sound of footsteps on the stretch of grass behind him. He dipped his head further down, until his chin nearly touched his chest, feeling strangely exhausted and embarrassed. She was just a kid really, even with what she had been through. What was he thinking, using her as a buffer for his feelings? He *wasn't* thinking.

  


Rogue touched his shoulder blade with butterfly-light fingers. Said, "Hey."

  


He tilted his head to the side, eyeing her. "Hey."

  


She licked her bottom lip, and then quirked her mouth up, eyes shining at him in the dark. "Well, if that's why you've been waiting, I think it's been just long enough. Not everything has to be strictly organized and completed by everyone else's standards. Just... do what she would have wanted ya to. That's all."

  


He frowned at her, considering. Then, "Who are you, Rogue? What the hell happened to you?"

  


She froze for a second, like a deer trapped in the headlights of an oncoming car. There was a fear in her gaze that gave him pause, made him wonder all the more. Just what had she been through? Then her eyes clouded over, and she ducked her head, avoiding his gaze. The porch light behind her outlined the stiffness of her shoulders, cresting over her hair. Her face was only half visible to him, looking taut and edgy.

  


"Same thing that's happened to every mutant I know," she replied, still not meeting his eyes. "The world just didn't care."

  


"The world cares," Scott argued, fingers twitching. He kept his hand firmly at his side. "It may not seem like it, but there are people that care about you. You have to know that. You push us away, but we feel for you."

  


"I don't want pity," she said stubbornly, chin at an angle as she studied him with a look he recognized. The look said she could do it by herself, that she didn't need anyone, and she was just amusing herself with this situation. Her cheeks were sharp with lying.

  


"That's good," he told her. "Because you certainly don't have mine."

  


Rogue's eyes sliced up to his, and then realizing that she was looking at him directly, skittered away. "That's something then, ain't it?" Shook her head. "I don't mean to be rude. My words just come out like that sometimes. I'm trying to change it."

  


"Don't change. Not for anyone."

Silence. The night moved around them, shifting in size and shape. Her pajama pants flapped gently at her ankles when the wind picked up. They stood, listening to it, trying to find words. Things could be said, important things.

  


'Jean's dead.'

'Yeah, but not your love for her. You got that. I don't love anybody.'

  


'There's always Bobby...'

  


'Yeah. Yeah, there's Bobby.'

  


'I think it's going to rain. I can smell it.'

  


'It's always raining. Not such a big thing to think about.'

  


'We should sleep.'

  


'Can you?'

  


Finally, he pushed his voice over the silence. "Would you help me make the arrangements? Just... be there? I'm not sure I can do it alone, and there's no one... You can say no. Of course, you'll say no, I shouldn't have..."

  


"Yeah. I mean, yes. I'm saying yes."

  


'So, can you sleep?'

  


Scott looked back at the big building waiting for him. The large bed that would be just as empty as before.

  


'Maybe. I think... yes, maybe.'

  
  


* * *

  


He had a dream about maybes. Something wistful and thin that held him by his throat, but not hard enough to choke him. Something that breathed heartening things into his ear and made him hope.

"Where are you going, Jean?" he growled in his sleep, holding the sheets around him and seeing his fingers wrapping around her wrist. Her face was bright, flushed with sex.

  


"Away?" She looked confused, that adorable frown knitting her face. "Maybe. I don't know."

  


"Don't."

  


Scott awoke, lifting up the arm he had thrown over his face, looking for her. The curtains were open and the day burned in, the sun hot and red, twisting over the bed as the clouds spun around it. The glass couldn't hold it back, just couldn't keep it away...

  


He remembered.

  


"She's gone."

  
  


End Chapter Two (2/15)

  


Next chapter coming soon. 

  


Thank you to the following people (in no particular order) for giving me wonderful feedback on ff.net for the first chapter, it really convinced me to post this sooner (I am SUCH a pushover): China Sea, Cherry, drama-nerd016, nightstone131302, TheBlackRaveness, A.J., New Fan, Alicia, Damn *g*, silent luscinia, Baloo, Lucky439, Kristal, Cyke 2 Lite, Me (reveal yourself my dear), Carrie M, X, Lori, kallista_feral, HornedGummieBear, Kail, and Sapphira. Thank you all VERY much, and I hope I continue to hear from you as this story progresses.


	3. Chapter Three: Rogue

Note to Readers: I know it seems like a long wait between chapters, and I may have half of this story written already, but I have more than one beta reader and it takes time for each chapter to be edited. So even though it may seem like I'm trying to torture you, I'm not. Each chapter is fairly long in itself, so I hope they satiate you at least a little. It's either you get the full chunk or bits and pieces here and there and I much prefer posting whole chapters. So even though it may be a little over a week for each chapter to be posted (and I did say in the beginning that it would be pretty much a week between chapters), I'm just trying (*trying*, possibly not succeeding) to put out a quality story here, which is why I allow myself the process of writing as it comes and not to a certain time table. I hope you continue to read and review if you've enjoyed it. I'll try to get the next chapter out soon.

  


Beta Readers (Chapter Three): A.J. and Laura, whom I adore. They pick me apart and I love them for it. 

Chapter Three (3/15)

  


Bobby's hand trailed over her stomach, and her muscles clenched against the touch. She bit her lip, lying carefully back against his pillows as he had asked her to. He stared down at her intently, his lips slightly parted, a line around his mouth that was a dimple when he smiled. But Bobby wasn't smiling now, too busy concentrating. 

  


"You okay?" he asked in a strange, hoarse voice.

  


Rogue blinked, once, and then smiled at him in answer. Yeah, she was doing okay. The blinds had been drawn, so the room was left a shaded yellow, dust mites drifting through the air, caught up in the half-light. Twisting like her nerves. The door to his room was locked, and Billy, who he shared it with since St. John had run off with Magneto and Mystique, was at lunch. They should have been themselves, but there was the lure of privacy and Rogue's newfound courage to push the envelope.

  


"Good," he whispered, and pressed more firmly against her belly, sliding his palm up until it rested just beneath her left breast. Her breath picked up as he leaned down, shifting onto his side beside her. The mattress dipped slightly, caving in at the center, bringing their bodies flush together. His pelvis rested against her thigh.

  


Their eyes met and a spark shot up her stomach, bouncing around like a ping-pong ball. His mouth quirked up at the corner. Cocky... She didn't finish the thought because just then, Bobby decided to slip his hand up to fully cover her breast for the first time. A breath gasped out of her, soft and between her teeth. Rogue could have cursed three ways from Sunday about the attentive way he was looking down at her. A hot look, from a guy that could freeze her if he liked. 

  


A pile of scarves sat beside her head, one edge tickling her cheek as she turned her head to the side, hissing out a soft moan and squeezing her eyes closed at the new sensation. His breath warmed the side of her face, setting off the tingling of danger and excitement low in her stomach.

  


There was a knock on the door.

  


"Dammit, Bobby, you locked the door again!"

  


Bobby groaned in disgust and dropped down onto the mattress beside her, his palm sliding away from her breast. Rogue laughed at the ceiling, listening to him curse at his roommate.

  


* * * *

  


The morning was misty, gray and wet like it had been raining. The thick, evocative smell of freshly cut grass tickled Rogue's nostrils as she waited for Scott to appear at the doors of the mansion. It was chilly enough that she regretted not wearing a jacket, but the air was heavy in a way that meant the chill would soon be gone and replaced with the bloated heat of new summer.

  


She was smoothing her hair back from her face when she caught sight of Scott heading toward her, his long strides taking him down the steps to where she was, leaning against his parked car. Rogue pushed herself to a standing position, smiling warmly at him in greeting even as her fingers threaded together.

  


"Morning," he said, rubbing a hand over the side of his jaw like he always did when he was tired, scraping the palm across his freshly shaved face. She'd seen him do it a million times in math class when Pyro made yet another smart-ass comment. But thinking about Pyro, the way he'd just walked away, made her stomach twist because damn, he was in her head and she *understood* why he'd gone. It wasn't about betrayal. It was about need.

  


"Morning," she replied, tipping her toes up and rolling back onto her heels, flashing her eyebrows at him. "So..."

  


He shook his head. "I'm okay. Don't tell me you're going to be yet another person who asks that same question constantly."

  


Rogue bit her bottom lip, glancing down at her boots. "You can't blame us for it, Scott. You always look so sad, and yet, so... I don't know if there are words, but it's like you're part of this big... big... THING... and sometimes that thing is all around you." Scott only stared at her, and Rogue found herself blushing, eyeballing her toes as she rocked forward onto them again. "Guess that doesn't make a bit of sense, but I don't care because it's what I mean."

  


"It makes sense," he assured her. And then he laughed, a sharp little chuckle that had her looking back up at him. "God help us all, but it does. Which scares me. So let's leave before I become a coward and decide to leave all the arrangements to the Professor after all."

  


When they were in the car, Rogue automatically buckled up, figuring he was the type of person that would be anal about it. Sure enough, he immediately slid the seatbelt over his chest like it was second nature, and then started the car up. It rumbled beneath their thighs, and she smiled secretly to herself, quickly concealing it with her gloved hand when he glanced over at her with a curious expression on his face.

  


He left the music off, so the sound of gravel popping under the tires and the hum of the pavement filled the air inside the car. It wasn't an unpleasant silence, more the type that was worn before a long night of speaking. An outfit that could be discarded at will when the time was right. Rogue found herself inexplicably comfortable, occasionally flicking her eyes to where his hands rested on the steering wheel, fingers shifting over the rubber grip, pointing north and west, tapping like maybe there WAS music playing. Somewhere.

  


There was a time when she could have said her life was made up of a of a future 'somewhere'. It had always been 'somewhere' down the road, she'd be happy again. 'Somewhere' not here, she could sit and breathe, not worrying about some little kid stumbling over his shoelaces and falling into her bare hands. 

  


Death was a somewhere. And for a while there she had wanted it, even been a little hungry for it. To know it and bring it into herself...

  


Rogue shuddered, clenching her teeth inside her mouth, fighting it back.

  


She didn't want to think about 'somewhere' anymore.

  


"You never speak of your parents," Scott said out of the blue, five minutes later. Rogue jerked her gaze over to him, surprised that he had even mentioned them, especially so bluntly. It was like being sucker-punched in the stomach, when she hadn't been prepared with her usual defenses. He had his eyebrows raised, and with the road a straight line in front of them, he was able to stare at her directly without worrying he'd run them into a ditch.

  


Rogue shrugged, trying at carelessness. "There's nothing really to say about them."

  


Admittedly, that was the understatement of the century. Her fingers were sweating beneath the gloves, making her itch to take them off. Instead she just clenched her hands together in her lap and stared at the road ahead, shrouded by green-leaved trees, acutely aware that he wasn't doing the same. The sound of his fingers tapping against the wheel was making her jaw twitch, a nervous tick she had never quite been able to get rid of.

  


Careless? Not quite. She counted the carcasses of run-over animals as they passed.

  


"Nothing, hmm?" Tap. Tap. Tap.

  


Logan in her head, "I'm telling ya, kid, he's a tight ass."

  


One. A cat.

  


"Nothing," Rogue muttered, glaring at him sideways. The visor he wore cast a shadow over his nose, making him look stern and imposing, but mostly concerned.

  


"But isn't this how it goes?"

  


Two. A rabbit this time.

  


"What?" Rogue asked, confused. She raised her hands into the air, palms facing the ceiling. He turned his face toward the road again, but a smile was fiddling with his lips, like he wanted to tease her with it, but wasn't really sure how. Like he'd never really done it before. She felt an odd sadness for him permeate her belly. There were moments where he seemed like he had never really gotten to play. At least she'd had a childhood. Sort of.

  


"Show me yours, I'll show you mine."

  


Was that a joke? Had Scott Summers actually cracked a joke?

  


Rogue rolled her eyes. "Men."

  


"We're all pigs at heart," he said wisely.

  


They both laughed and she felt her heart lighten, a tight knot beneath her ribs loosen. Rogue tossed him a quiet thanks with her eyes, but he wasn't looking at her. His jaw was moving slowly as he chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip, facing the road. 

  


In the distance, Rogue could see a town looming, like a blister that had to be popped at exactly sunset so that it wouldn't hurt. Not quite real like a folklore wasn't quite true. It always had that look about it, the surrealistic quality of fog, because none of them really lived there, even though they *did*. The sun peeked over the buildings, blinking through the gray, fading air, dissolving it into a bittersweet memory that she could taste on the back of her tongue but could never swallow.

  


"So you've successfully avoided the subject," Scott pointed out, a moment later when they had entered the town. He slowed the vehicle down to about twenty miles per hour, driving carefully among the other cars and trucks, with fresh light glinting off their hoods. 

  


Rogue only sighed, squinting her eyes when the rays bounced of the metal surfaces and blinded her. Friends they might be, or at least heading in that direction, but still... just no. She didn't talk about her parents to anyone.

  


"It's that building right over there," she said abruptly, when she saw the red-bricked funeral parlor at the end of Main Street. Of course, he already knew that. But it was something to say, something to fill the space where another answer could have sat.

  


'My parents hate me.'

  


'Because you're a mutant?'

  


'Yeah, but that's probably an excuse. I think they just hate me.'

  


Scott slowed the car to a stop, put his blinker on, and pulled them into a parking space. Rogue unbuckled her seatbelt when he turned off the engine with a flick of his wrist, shoving the door open immediately and stepping out. 

  


Friendship shouldn't be so exhausting, should it? Maybe it was just being friends with HIM that was tiring her out. Scott was so miserable that he sucked the life right out of her heart, made her ache for him, even love him a little for standing so straight and strong, made her care. But then, there were those moments when she could feel his focus on her, and it was like the only thing that mattered to him was figuring her out, which might be the most exhausting part of all.

  


She didn't want anyone to know her. Not really. Not when she wasn't sure who she really was. There were nights when she'd wake up and think she was an entirely different person, suspended like a reflection of someone else in the water. Clear and breakable as glass.

  


Rogue startled when she heard the slap of a palm against metal, breaking out of her reverie and looking sharply over her shoulder. Scott was on the opposite side of the car, lips a flat line, watching her as he rested his forearms against the roof.

  


"What?" she mumbled, slamming the door shut.

  


Scott shrugged, a casual shift of shoulders beneath white cotton. "I'm just thinking that you look alone again. Look, I may be a little rusty at being friends with someone other than... Jean... but I'm pretty sure friendship involves sharing of life experiences. And yes, I pry often, and you hate it, but that's part of the deal."

  


"And if I don't like this little deal of yours?"

  


"Tough." That firm line stretched over his mouth again. 

  


A drop of rain landed on her cheek, making her flinch. She wiped the wetness away, smearing it across her skin. Wondered yet again if guilt was reason enough to put herself through this dissecting he loved to do. 

  


"My parents hate me," she said, giving in.

  


Guilt *was* reason enough. Scott looked like she'd slapped him.

  


* * * *

  


Stepping into the funeral parlor was like stepping into a closet that had been overwhelmed by florists. Everywhere she looked there was a vase with flowers inside of it, stinking up the entire room. Oh, she loved flowers, but this place was just a bit overbearing with them. 

  


Pushers. Flowers didn't make people live again. What was the use crowding up space that could be used for something that helped, like photographs?

  


Scott's shoulder brushed against hers, just slightly. Rogue eyed him, catching the intense expression of discomfort on his face. He didn't want to be here anymore than she did. She was about to suggest that they could come back another time when a plump man came out from behind a black velvet curtain, his skin streaked with sweat in the dim lighting.

  


"Welcome," he said gravely. "Have you come to pay your respects to Mr. Clevington?"

  


Scott appeared to be swallowing a grapefruit. Rogue cleared her throat. "Ah, no," she said when Scott didn't speak. "Actually, we came to discuss funeral arrangements for a loved one."

  


The plump man nodded sagely, as if he had known all along. The light glistened off of his shiny forehead, a clump of hair spun up at the center like it was wistful for days when it had been more than just a clump. 

  


"This way," he said in a quiet voice, gesturing with his hands toward a door on the opposite side of the room, book-ended by two tables with yet more flowers on them. Rogue scratched her nose discreetly, irritated by the overwhelming scents. 

  


She and Scott followed behind him, matching the slow, respectful pace he had set. Rogue was overly-aware of how silent the rooms they passed were. Like the dead would awaken if anyone so much as whispered. She shivered. There was just something about a funeral parlor that made a person want to run far, far away. It wasn't even about mortality, which was too obvious. No, it was facing the fact that there just might not be something beyond this world to look forward to. And if that was true, if there wasn't anything happier than this world, they were all just screwed.

  


The room they were led to was an office that smelled like dust. Near the window, it had a large oak desk with a fat leather chair behind it. Rogue shifted uneasily on her feet when the plump man took a seat in it and gestured for them to do the same with the two chairs facing the desk. Scott cast his eyes toward her as he did so, pushing her into motion beside him. 

  


When they were seated, the man before them smiled. Vaguely. "My name is Frank Chaplin. You may call me Mr. Chaplin."

  


So... polite. Not quite honest.

  


Rogue nodded, keeping Scott in her sights as she leaned forward and shook the man's hand. "You can call me Rogue." 

Frank cocked his head to the side, a roll on his neck bulging over his shirt collar. His eyes moved down to her gloves, and then over to Scott's visor. Jerked away on a quiet cough, his fingers fidgeting in her own, as if he'd just noticed what they were. "Rogue... Do you have a last name to go with the first?"

  


"Just Rogue."

  


"Just... Rogue. Lovely name." He coughed discreetly, and then dipped his head in the direction of Scott, who was sitting very stiffly, hands clenched over the arms of the chair. "And your name is...." 

  


A pause. Tension that had nothing to do with what they were at the funeral home for. "Scott Summers," he answered eventually, when white lines had appeared around Frank's nostrils, and he appeared to be swallowing convulsively. Was he afraid?

  


"I am pleased to make your acquaintance," Frank said, shaking hands with Scott. When he pulled back, he tugged at his collar, stretching his neck as if to escape its confines. "Though, not under these circumstances, of course."

  


"Of course," Scott replied politely, with a dip of his chin. And then he threaded his fingers together, calmly placing them on his stomach. "My fiancee passed away recently." So direct, so cool. He might as well be made of ice. "The body was never found. What sort of packages do you offer for a situation like this? I want the best there is." His voice cracked, just slightly, before he cleared his throat and continued. "The absolute best."

  


Frank looked uncomfortable. "Was she..." He paused, obviously expecting Scott to fill in the blanks for them all. Rogue remained quiet, watching.

  


"A mutant?" Scott raised an eyebrow, arching it high above the visor. "I'm not sure what relevance that has to a burial."

  


Frank flinched, and covered it by looking down at a pile of papers that sat on top of his desk. When he looked up again, his face was blank. "It does have relevance, I'm afraid to say. After recent events, the churches we are connected to have decided that we should sever any and all ties with... well. We just think that it's politic to separate ourselves from the controversy."

  


Scott's face was flat, showing no emotion. Abruptly, he got to his feet. Frank shrank back in his chair, his eyes squeezing shut. Rogue felt sick as Scott reached down and took her hand, pulling her from the chair gently and leading her out of the room, all without looking back at the cowardly man who was doing everything but hiding beneath his desk.

  


They didn't say anything the entire trip back to the mansion. Instead, he turned on the radio and held onto the steering wheel with more force than necessary. When they were home, he quietly escorted Rogue to her room, and told her he'd see her at dinner.

  


He didn't show.

  


Rogue sat with Jubilee, Kitty, and Bobby, trying to focus on them instead of casting her eyes to the door and worrying. Scott was a grown man. He'd be fine.

  


"....movies. Are you even listening? Rogue!"

  


Rogue jerked in her seat when Kitty slapped her on the shoulder, nearly falling off. She looked around to find all three of them staring at her with concerned expressions.

  


"Sorry," she said, clearing her throat. "What?"

  


Bobby looked at her oddly, and Rogue found herself blushing. She shoved a forkful of salad past her lips, chewing so she wouldn't have to explain herself.

  


"We were talking about going to see that new Matrix movie," Bobby said, after a moment of eyeballing her. He spooned some soup into his mouth, and then set the spoon down into the bowl with a clink. "Actually, we've been talking about it for the past ten minutes. We, as in, not really you talking at all. Are you okay?"

  


She stared at him. "Yeah. Just distracted. It's been one of those long days."

  


"You left pretty early," Jubilee said conversationally, taking a big bite of watermelon. Juice dripped down her chin, so she wiped it away with her finger, sucking on the tip like she wasn't drawing every boys' eyes in the room. "I woke up when you were getting dressed."

  


Rogue shifted uneasily, staring down at her food. "Yeah."

  


"You got up before noon?" Kitty gasped. "On a Saturday? Are you *sick*?"

  


"Ha Ha," Rogue muttered. The lettuce on her plate looked like it had crawled off of something dead. She poked at it curiously, lifting it up with her fork and examining it. Feeling a bit queasy, she scraped her tongue over the roof of her mouth and wished she hadn't taken the bite she had. 

  


"So," Bobby began, leaning down to catch her eyes. "What's up, Rogue?" 

  


"*Nothing*!" She said, emphasizing the word. Turning nothing into something. She fiddled with her silverware, before finally slapping her hands down on the table and meeting his gaze.

  


His eyes narrowed. "'Nothing' seems to be making you nervous. Tell me what's wrong with you."

  


"Look," she said, noticing that everyone at the table was watching what was escalating into a intensely person moment. "It's nothing, okay? It's personal."

  


Bobby pulled back like she had swung at him, Kitty coughed and went back to eating, and Jubilee appeared to be studying her fingernail polish as intently as her teachers wished she would study her schoolwork. Rogue felt like pond scum. But it *wasn't* her problem to tell. That was a rule of friendship, right? Don't tell unless they say you can.

  


"Bobby..."

  


He shook his hand, shoving the chair out and standing. She leaned back, looking up at him as he hovered near the table for a moment, and then walked away. There was a familiar tension in his shoulders, one she remembered from every time he'd asked her out and she had said no.

  


"Damn it, Bobby," she whispered.

  


Jubilee tapped her nails against the table. And then, "So... are we still going to the movies?"

  


Rogue rolled her eyes. "J."

  


"Just asking!"

  


* * * *

  


The adults' rooms were one floor above the oldest of the teenagers. Rogue climbed the stairs, holding a plate with foil covering it in her hands. It was still hot, so she found herself pausing every few seconds and shifting it on her palms to avoid burning her skin. She hesitated when she reached his door, sedate and brown, before taking a deep breath and knocking sharply on the wood.

  


'Hey, Scott,' she could say. 'So, I figured I could come clean with you about a few things. You see, I might be at least a part of the reason Jean's gone. How about that? Do you hate me? Are you hungry?'

  


She could see the dull pain in his eyes already. Shook off the image.

  


Rogue heard nothing for a moment, but then there was the sound of footsteps heading in her direction. She pasted a smile onto her face and held up the plate. Scott opened the door a second later, surprising her with his appearance. His hair was mussed up, sticking out in odd directions, flattened at the side. His jaw had that mysterious five o' clock shadow men got that somehow made them look dangerous, although on Scott, it just made him look ruffled and edgy. The shirt he was wearing was half unbuttoned, hanging from his body limply, wrinkled like he'd slept in it.

  


"Rogue?" His voice was rusty. His forehead wrinkled above his glasses, puzzled.

  


She blinked and held the plate up higher. "You weren't at dinner."

  


He shook his head, pushing away the last vestiges of sleep, and then glanced at the watch on his wrist. With a sigh, he dropped his arm and rubbed his fingers into his forehead, scrubbing at the skin. "I guess I slept through it." Scott gestured to the plate she was holding. "Tell me that's what I think it is."

  


"Freshly made by the chef. Or not so freshly, depending on your definition of that word."

  


Scott smiled ruefully, taking the plate from her. "Thanks. Um, come on in." He opened the door wider and stepped out of the archway, ushering her in with a light hand on her elbow. She moved inside, trying to be inconspicious as she looked around in curiosity. 

  


"I appreciate the food," he said from behind her, voice still gravelly from sleep. She heard the shuffling of tin foil and nodded vaguely, glancing at the unmade bed and the bottle of vodka she spotted beside it. A space inside her stomach felt hollow. Regretful. Maybe she'd had a reason to worry, after all.

  


"Well, I was there. I figured bringing you up some food wouldn't completely ruin my day."

  


"Good thing," he muttered, taking a seat in one of the large chairs that looked like Jean had hand picked them from a antique shop. "I'm starved." When she turned to face him, pretending she hadn't seen the bottle, he motioned for her to take a seat beside him. Rogue noted the lines of tension around his mouth were showing instead of the dimples she'd often seen there.

  


"I really can't," she replied, regretfully. "I have to find Bobby before he makes some grand romantic gesture. You don't know how embarrassing those can be."

  


"I don't know," Scott said, setting the tin foil aside and picking up a fork. He poked at the salad with interest. "I've always thought they were sweet. That time he sent you a singing telegram to ask you on a date in the middle of class was funny. He's a hopeless romantic"

  


"Yeah," Rogue laughed, still standing there, hands in her pockets. "But we all know your secret. You're just a big softie."

  


His lips parted, head jerking up to eye her through his glasses. "What? No. I'm not. I'm extremely unpredictable and dangerous."

  


"Yep. Saving stray dogs and everything. I'm so scared of you."

  


Scott shook his head and pointed to the door with his fork. "Out."

  


Rogue laughed again and started out of the room. She paused at the doorway, glancing over her shoulder. "Watch out for the lettuce. I think it's alive. It tried to climb off my plate."

  


Scott chuckled. The lines around his mouth had faded. "Didn't I just tell you to get out?"

  


"I'm going, Sugah. I'm going."

  


When she closed the door behind her, she felt a little better about the day. Granted, he'd turned to drinking and she had some bad memories associated with alcohol, mostly originating from her experiences in bars, but he'd been laughing when she left. And that was something. A definite something.

  


* * * *

  


It took only a few seconds to go crazy, Rogue thought. She felt sick at heart and sick of fighting. It was always the same thing, every time. He wanted more than she could give him, and she was left unsure how much of her there really was to give.

  


Bobby wasn't in his room or the library, where he sometimes went when he wanted to be alone. It took Rogue over an hour to find him. In fact, she had pretty much given up on finding him when she stumbled upon him. In her room. 

  


"Bobby," she gasped, when she found him sitting on her bed, elbows on his knee, shoulders hunched forward. She placed a hand over her heart, which throbbed in her chest, and smiled at him hesitantly. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

  


He slowly lifted his chin, watching her silently. The light from the lamp slanted over his cheeks, making his pale skin seem somehow more vibrant, fluid and thick with things she would probably never fully understand.

  


"Why'd you run off like that?" Rogue asked, wrapping her fingers around each other, tangling the fabric of her gloves together. "I was worried about you."

  


"Were you?" Bobby sighed, long and drawn out, studying her closely. The bulb in the lamp hesitated, flickering, before flaring brighter than before. Revelations were like that, pulsing and hateful. Rogue swallowed at the sadness on his face, inching her way forward into the room, closing the door behind her so that whatever was going on (and she wasn't sure what WAS going on) wouldn't be broadcasted to the teenagers lounging in the hallway.

  


"What's that supposed to mean?" Rogue demanded defensively. She was painfully aware of how loud her voice was. "Of course I was worried about you. I mean, you don't usually wear that look on your face."

  


"Hmm." Bobby nodded, an ironic glint in his eyes. The collar of the jacket he wore was wet, like he'd been outside, walking in the rain. "That's probably a good thing, because I don't usually discover my girlfriend doesn't want me to get close to her." Rogue opened her mouth up to respond, but he held a hand up in the air. "Before you say anything, Rogue, that's not what I mean. You've let me closer... physically. But with everything else? No. When something makes you sad, you close up tighter than a clam and I can't even get you to talk about it. Why is that?"

  


She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the band of pressure tighten around her lungs like it always did whenever he began pushing the envelope of their intimacy. His gaze drifted down, landing on her forearms pointedly, making Rogue aware of exactly what she had done. With an effort, she uncrossed her arms and took a step forward. He didn't move, just continued looking at her like he was waiting for her to say something. Something important. Something that she didn't know how to say. Rogue took another step forward, reaching out to touch the side of his face with a single, gloved-finger. His eyes fell closed.

  


"I know I'm not always the most forthcoming girl in the world," she murmured, and he chuckled ruefully, deep in his throat. She tapped his lips in response, keeping him quiet. "That doesn't mean I'm trying to keep you out. I let you touch me physically, which means more than you'll ever know. But there are some things... some things just aren't meant to be said, Bobby, and I can't change that."

  


"What *things*, Rogue?" He asked pleadingly, opening his eyes and looking into hers with a flicker of hope. He was always flickering, as if he sat on the edge of a flame and was forever dashing it with ice to keep it away. She remembered a feeling she'd gotten from him during that first, dangerous kiss... he WAS afraid of her. Bobby was afraid she'd break his heart. She didn't know how to comfort him or make that fear go away.

  


"People in relationships share what hurts them," he was saying. "And most of the time, I feel like you... like you just don't want this or *need* this as much as I do."

  


"Oh Bobby, of course I do." She cupped his jaw with her palms, kneeling between his thighs and leaning close to his face, wishing she could kiss him on the lips. "I need you *so* much. You don't even understand the half of it."

  


"Then tell me," he whispered. "*Tell me*."

  


"I... need you to understand me," she told him, reaching her arms around his waist to grasp the silk scarf lying on the bed behind him. His breath fell against her forehead, warm and quickening. "I need you to believe me." Rogue pulled the scarf up toward his face, watching him intently. "I need you to hold me." She leaned up, lifting her butt off of her heels, stretching to kiss him lightly through the fabric. His eyes were open on hers, serious. "I need you to kiss me," she whispered.

  


"Rogue," he said, painfully.

  


"I need you to kiss me," she repeated, compelling him by touching his mouth with just her fingertips. "Kiss me, Bobby."

  


With a groan, he did.

  


* * * *

  


"Looks like we're not going to make it to the movie," Bobby pointed out, a few hours later, after they had spent far too long making out and not enough time cooling down. His breath was a little shallow as he cuddled her into the crook of his arm, laying back against the pillows and staring at the dark ceiling. He smelled like a lust, a hot scent that she found herself drawn to.

  


Rogue stroked his cotton-covered chest slowly, feeling his heart thud beneath her palm. Nodding against his arm, she said nothing. Instead, she counted the shadows as they shifted inside the ever-darkening room. Her stomach was cramped with tension.

  


"Rogue," he murmured, threading his fingers through her hair, holding her against him. He was using the 'shaky voice.' The one that got to her every damn time because she knew he needed her, had sometimes rubbed her hands over her own body because she knew what it was like to ache for herself, from his point of view. She knew how, at times, his fingertips throbbed to touch her.

  


"What had you so distracted today? Please, just tell me. As much as you can. You looked upset."

  


"Bobby." She didn't want to fight again. She'd had enough of fighting with him about how open she was. It wasn't like she was a nutshell to be cracked open. These days, she wasn't even sure if there was anything inside her to be found but scattered remains of other people.

  


A car passed outside, its light briefly touching the ceiling of her room, washing it in yellow light, stretching out the shadows into creepy shapes. And then it was gone, and the room seemed darker than it had even before the headlights had flooded it.

  


"No. I mean, I know. You need space, I understand that. Just tell me what you can."

  


His finger, moving along her collar bone. Gentle. He was always so gentle.

  


"Okay," she said, on a breath of resignation. "This morning, I went with a friend to help him with certain arrangements. I was worried that it had been too much for him when I didn't see him at dinner.

  


Bobby's finger paused briefly, and she felt his chest rise and fall before he resumed the caress. "Ahh. So, you're weren't having second thoughts about this whole sexual side to our relationship?"

  


"What?" Rogue gasped, sitting up. She saw the slightly embarrassed look on his face and slapped at his chest. "No! Is that what you were upset about? Scott's right, all men are pigs!" But she was giggling when Bobby grabbed her around the waist to keep her from scrambling off the bed, hauling her onto the mattress and trapping her beneath his body.

  


"That we are, Rogue, my dear. That we are."

  


She smiled as he kissed her through the shield of her hair.

  


Fight avoided. Harmony restored. 

  


* * * *

  


Some days moved like molasses. Everyone spoke slower, laughed harder, and kissed sweeter. The sunshine, noon-bright, slid its nosy fingers through the blinds and crept over the desks as students read aloud, passed notes amongst themselves, and took notes as their teacher dictated. The sound of chalk on the chalkboard, scraping and scratching, was familiar and numbing, bringing about the taste of ease and comfort inside the mouth. Students joked, occasionally, and were tossed stern glances from the smart girl in front of them who wanted to hear what the teacher had to say.

  


Today was one of those days.

  


After math class, Rogue plopped down in the chair she'd pulled across the room, propping her feet up on Scott's desk, and clunking her boots down on the surface. His chin lifted and he peered over her toes at her in annoyance.

  


"Feet," he said, tapping the sole of one boot. 

  


She smiled coquettishly. "C'mon, Sugah, they're clean."

  


"Maybe," Scott replied, while pushing her feet off the desk. "But it's rude."

  


Rogue shook her head, straightening in the chair. "Whatever. So, how'd I do on the exam?"

  


Scott didn't look up at from the homework he was grading, but his dimples were winking on and off, like he was fighting a smile. "I'm not telling you that."

  


Rogue pouted her lips, folding her arms over her stomach. "How come?"

  


"Because you'll find out your grade as soon as every other student in the class does." He tapped the desk with his pen, emphasizing his words. "Next week."

  


She shook her head, sadly. "Why are you so uptight, Scott?"

  


He lifted his head, touching the pen to his mouth as if in deep thought. And then he flashed her a mocking smile. "Why are you so persistent, Rogue?"

  


Yes, one of those days for sure. The type that itched with layers, bloated and happy, like nothing could go wrong. Rogue crossed one ankle over the other, the tights she wore bunching at the calves. She picked at the wrinkles, and then gave up, pushing her skirt further down.

  


She hated to break the mood.

  


"So," Rogue began deliberately, watching his jaw tense, and then release. "How are things?"

  


Scott set the pen down carefully, and then he laced his fingers together, leaning forward against the desk. "You can ask me outright, Rogue. I'm not going to break."

  


"I know that," she defended. Her shoulders tensed, before she took a careful breath and relaxed. Things didn't have to be constantly hard between them. She didn't have to be constantly defensive. At least, she told herself this much.

Scott was watching her, waiting. "Then ask," he said simply.

  


Rogue took a breath, thinking wryly that Bobby was often trying to get her to do the same exact thing: open up, be a little more carefree, say what she wanted to say. She sometimes wondered if she inspired something protective in men. Logan, Bobby, Scott, and at one time, Pyro ( before he had been Pyro, and just Bobby's annoying roommate who would probably do just about anything to keep her and Bobby alive... and had). All the men in her life seemed intent on fixing whatever they saw broken in her. The difference was that Scott didn't appear to have any motivation.

  


"I was wondering what you were going to do for Jean now that..." she trailed off, swallowing. It hurt. The rejection, simply because they were different. Right to the simple truth of it, she felt as human as they probably did, just with a little more problems and a little less ability to touch. She cleared her throat, and light sun shifted across the desk, turning a darker yellow, shadows lengthening as a stray cloud shielded the sun. "Now that they won't perform the services."

  


Scott shifted in his chair, a soft sadness passing over his face like the rain during a quiet summer storm. Shrugged. "I'm not sure. I was considering performing a quiet ceremony here."

  


Rogue nodded. "I think that's an excellent idea."

  


"Yes," he murmured, a far away expression on his features for a moment as he appeared to look somewhere over her shoulder. "I was thinking that we'd hold it outside, by the pond. Sometimes she'd sit there in the summertime, in that white dress she had, and just dip her toes into the water, picking on me because I wouldn't do so myself."

  


"Hmm," Rogue hummed, seeing the memory clearly in her head, as if it was her own. "I think that would be a lovely place to hold it. You could set up a quiet picnic, and people could remember her as she was. Lovely, kind, and strong. I envied her."

  


Scott's face cleared and he turned his head toward her. "What do you mean?"

  


"What?" She inquired, confused. And then her chest filled with horror over what she had said. "Oh, I didn't mean... I was only... God. I should go." She stood to leave, but found her arm captured before she could, careful fingers wrapping around her wrist. "Scott."

  


"Hey, I'm not mad. I just want to know what you meant by that."

  


She blushed furiously, trying to hide it by ducking her head down and concealing her cheeks with the veil of her hair. "I um, well, you know when I first arrived here? Everything that happened?" Rogue waited for him to nod and then continued. "Well, I had this huge embarrassing crush on Logan."

  


Scott's face shifted into a knowing smirk. "That's not exactly news. You were envious of his feelings for Jean. His rather *blatant* feelings for Jean." He let go of her wrist and sat back, his face hidden by the shadows of the room, the sun only catching the tip of his chin. "There's no shame in that. And there shouldn't be any guilt. You're only... well, I'd like to say human here, but that's not quite true. You exist, you have a heart, you feel pain. There's nothing wrong with that."

  


Rogue nodded, still avoiding looking at him too directly.

  


There was something to be guilty over.

  


"I take it your huge embarrassing crush on Logan has gone away?" He asked, and she found herself laughing reluctantly, and taking a seat again. 

  


"I guess you could say that," she said. 

  


Scott leaned forward, a teasing note entering his voice. "What else might I say?" 

"You're digging," Rogue pointed out.

  


"And you're evading," he tossed back.

  


They both stayed quiet for a moment, facing off. And then Rogue tossed her feet back up onto his desk, distracting him briefly, and toyed with her gloved fingers. "Well, maybe, and this is a big maybe... but maybe sometimes, I toy with naked-Logan in my head."

  


Scott's face twisted into an expression of disgust. "Rogue!"

  


"What?" she demanded innocently, eyes deceptively wide. "You were the one that was digging."

  


"Well," he replied, still looking mildly perturbed. "You were the one that should have continued evading."

  


A content silence, moving like the return of molasses, filled the room. Rogue continued to fiddle with her fingers, and Scott didn't push her feet off the desk. Instead, he picked up a homework assignment that one of his students had turned in, and leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him.

  


After a moment, he calmly set the paper onto his lap. She glanced up, feeling his attention on her.

  


"Flowers, do you think?"

  


Rogue's lips twisted to the side, thinking of Frank Chaplin. "No," she said, chest full of memories. "I was thinking pictures."

  


"Pictures?" Scott frowned, forehead creasing. She nodded, and he did the same thoughtfully, spinning his chair so that he could look out the window. The sunlight moved over him, catching on his glasses, reflecting a red glare across the desk. And then, at last: "That sounds about right."

  


* * * *

  


Rogue had a dream, that night, as she often did.

  


This one was different.

  


There were colors, mostly red, and they burned into her eyes. She was standing in the middle of Bobby's bedroom, holding onto him as he pressed his lips onto her throat, and her bare skin bit him, grew hungry.

  


He cried. He cried, and then he was dead.

  


There were colors, mostly red, and it was the color of Bobby's bloodless lips that struck her the most, as he fell to the ground, inside her as much as he was gone.

Jean stood silently in the doorway, holding pictures in her hand while Scott looked in through the window, lips moving like he was counting, flowers in his hair.

"Rogue," Jean said. "Marie," she whispered. "Take care."

  


Someone shook her arm, and Marie turned around, still holding onto Bobby's lifeless form, finding Jubilee standing over her in her nightgown, a concerned expression on her beautiful face.

  


"Rogue," she called. "Rogue, wake up. You're crying."

  
  


* * * *

  


Bobby passed her the popcorn, and Rogue shook her head, even though she took it anyway, balancing it on her thighs as her focus remained on the movie. He had been careful to order popcorn with absolutely no butter, so she wouldn't stain her gloves, but she still felt uncomfortable with the idea of eating finger-food wearing them, and she wasn't about to take them off.

  


She knew it frustrated him, but there were still some truths that weren't about to change.

  


Bobby had to fight to keep his mutation under control when his emotions were volatile; his love for her was making that control come harder, and sometimes, he couldn't sleep at night because his parents, his father especially, had rejected him. Logan was restless, stalking through the hallways with a cigar shoved between his teeth, growling at anyone that looked at him a second too long, sometimes dragging her into town for a game of pool, a drink of beer and a warning to not tell Scott he'd let her drink underage. Scott was getting better, laughing a little, loosening up, but he was still grieving, and he probably always would be.

  


Rogue... well, she was still the girl with the deadly skin. The girl who wasn't really sure who she was, if she even existed or if she was just the compiled bits and pieces of other peoples' personalities. And she'd probably never, ever let anyone inside that she didn't have to. She'd had a few that she hadn't had a choice about, after all. There was no way she would let in anyone when she could keep them out.

  


"Would you like a soda?" Bobby asked in her ear, causing her to flinch, ever so slightly. Luckily, he didn't appear to notice.

  


"Nah, Sugah. I'm fine. You know how I get if I have a soda during the movie. I always have to go to the bathroom while it's still playing, and I hate missing scenes."

  


Bobby nodded, turning his eyes back to the movie screen.

  


Rogue watched his profile, shivering with emotion that floated in the back of her head and heart like a low buzzing white-noise. Always there. Never leaving. As the light from the movie shifted over his face as the scenes changed, she couldn't help but picture him as he was in her dream: in love, dead, and both because of her.

  
  


End Chapter Three (3/15)

  


Feedback? Why yes, feedback is lovely.


	4. Chapter Four: Scott

Thanks for waiting on this, guys. It WAS a bit, wasn't it? Well, FF.net was being a 'bitch' and not letting me upload ANYTHING. I swear, I was going to take out an ax and beat my computer with it. Thanks for all the reviews and supporting me as I continue to post this story. The next chapter will be out MUCH quicker.

Beta Readers: A.J., Laura, and Alex Dollard. You guys are great for putting up with my  'artistic' temperament. And ya know, when I disappear. Thanks.

The Road Away From Heartache

Chapter Four (4/15)

By Princess Twilite

        Scott spent his afternoon in the Danger Room, moving through simulation after simulation until his stomach muscles throbbed and his arms ached for a break. 

          Afterwards, he sat on the stairs outside the room and drank heavily from the bottle of water he had brought with him. The water twisted its way down his throat, cooling off the dry, throbbing edges of his exhaustion.

          He sat there for a while, wearing loose shorts and a shirt with its sleeves cut off, letting the sweat soak into him. Usually, he would have been in the shower by now, cleaning up and dressing in the proper attire for dinner. Usually, but not today. His shoelaces were beginning to come undone as he tapped his foot to the offbeat of his heart. Tearing the label from the bottle of water, he stared absently at the wall.

          'Lighten up,' he could hear Jean admonishing. 'It's not the end of the world. Look at ya, you're doing okay.'

          "Am I?" he whispered.

          The stairwell where he rested, breath slow and even, was dark, layered in shadows. Every time he tore another piece of the label away, the ripping sound flattened against the walls. It could have been heard down the hallway, if anyone was listening. But Scott was alone, thighs burning from the workout, hair wet with perspiration.

          He closed his eyes on a sigh as the last bit of label fell onto the step where his feet were tapping to that beat no one but he himself could hear.

          * * * *

          Rogue helped him plan the ceremony, though they hadn't set a date to hold it yet. Scott felt a little guilty, dragging her around with him everywhere, when she could be out with her friends or boyfriend, doing her homework, or any number of things she might want to actually do. But she wasn't complaining, had in fact offered her assistance, so he wasn't going to look the gift horse in the mouth. Things were taken away far too quickly to regret having them around when they were there.

          Last night, they had sat around the fire in the living room with Bobby and Ororo, speaking for a long time about meaningless things that made them laugh. He had smiled softly at the way they looked together, Rogue and Bobby, sitting at the end of the couch with her head in his lap. The reflection of the flame had danced across her face as she fell asleep there, watching the television flicker at a distance, with some old sitcom on TV Land.

          Bobby had carefully disengaged himself from her clinging grip. She'd grumbled and shifted in her sleep, snorting softly. Ororo had laughed quietly from her perch in the comfiest chair. Bobby mimicked the sound, shifting her up into his arms, cradling her like a child and struggling a little with her weight. 

          "Do you need some help?" Scott had asked, standing and flattening out the wrinkles in his pants with his palms. Bobby had turned, his back to the fire, light glinting over his shoulders as he smiled.

          "No," the boy had said in a slightly strained voice, moving Rogue until she was in a better position in his arms. "She's a handful, but I think I can take care of her."

          A soft, bittersweet pang had burst inside Scott's chest as Bobby turned away, Rogue in tow, her legs hanging over his forearm, head on his shoulder. He watched them go, a wistful burn in his heart. He felt the urge to call after them, but restrained himself.

          'You better,' he had thought. 'Because if you don't... if you don't take care of her with everything inside of you, you might not get another chance. And then, I'll have to kill you.'

          "Are you okay?" Ororo had asked, in that calm, knowing voice of hers. Scott forced himself to turn away from the departing couple, facing her stiffly, spine erect.

          "I'm fine," he'd replied. Absolutely fine.

          "Not everyone comes to a bad end," she had said, and that was that.

          Returning to the present, Scott brought out a small box that he had placed at the top of his closet. It was deceptively light for something that held items of such importance to him. He took a seat across from Rogue on the floor, crossing his legs as she did. After a moment of hesitancy, he lifted the cover from the cardboard box. Inside were all the pictures of Jean that he had. A hard knot lodged in his throat as he carefully pressed his index finger against one photograph, at the top, a little dusty from storage.

          In the photo, she was standing on the top step in front of the mansion with her arms spread open wide like she might leap and fly at any moment. There was a wide grin on her face, hair spilling down around her cheeks in thick waves.

          Laughter, hers and his own, echoed hauntingly through his ears.

          Silently, feeling a dull throb in his heart, Scott handed the photograph to Rogue, who was staring at him raptly. She took it in her gloved hand and looked at it for a long time, while he waited for her reaction. The muted glow from the lamp washed over the side of her hair, turning it a luminescent shade of red.

          "She's so beautiful," Rogue whispered, a moment later, lifting her eyes to his face. He felt his cheeks tighten in something like a smile.

          "That she is," Scott replied, gaze on the picture in her hand. "I'd... almost forgotten."

          "Yeah," he heard her say softly, near his cheek. And then Rogue's arms were around his neck and he was pressing his forehead into her shoulder, letting her hold onto him. The scent of her was sweet and comforting. And God, he needed to cry, needed to know that someone was still alive. To know that for a moment, just a moment, things were okay.

          The box of photographs sat between them, filled with memories of Jean Grey, her beautiful smile, and the way she just... *shone*.

          "I loved her so much," he said into Rogue's ear while she kept her arms banded tight around him, trying to take the hurt away.

          "You still do." Southern-accent lilting over the words, making the ache go away.

          "Thank you." Again. He was always thanking her.

          "For?" So many things.

          "I once said you gave me something back. I just didn't know what it was."

          "What then?"

          "I think I can live without her."

          "Don't thank me for that."

          "Rogue..."

          He wanted to say more, even began to. "Rogue," he whispered, when his tears were dry and itchy on his face, but she made small sounds in her throat like her muscles were cramping up. She groaned when he pulled back, releasing her, falling back onto her butt on the floor with a heavy thump. The hem of her dress tipped up at her ankles, and she reached down to rub her calves as if they'd gotten sore.

          Scott felt briefly ashamed, picking at the carpet, stroking his fingers along the edge of the box. Like a child who had held onto his mother in that shaky time of adolescence when it was embarrassing to and his buddies would rib him for it later on.

          "Sorry," she said, flashing him a grin. "I'm not very good at hugging. My muscles think it's a work out or something."

          "Thank you," he told her, ignoring her dodging statement.

          The smile dropped from her face and she turned, ever so slightly, the lamplight catching on the harsh, forever-defensive line of her cheek. "I keep telling you to stop thanking me."

          "And I keep telling you to stop apologizing."

          She frowned, the type he had seen only a few times before, when she'd just come to the mansion, skittish and afraid. The type of frown that made him wonder about the woman behind it, about why she was so afraid of caring for anything, and about why she bothered trying to comfort him when she couldn't seem to comfort herself.

          "It's okay to live without her," Rogue murmured to him, out of the blue. He found his eyes drifting over her face in surprise. How had she known what he was thinking, what he had wanted to tell her?

           She handed him another picture from the box. "She would have wanted it that way, I think. You happy. Large and in charge. I think she would have wanted you to go on like always."

          "And if that's not possible?" he asked, balancing the photograph on the flat of his palm.        

          Rogue tilted her head to the side, considering him. Abruptly, she stood up, the skirt of her dress falling down around her stocking-covered legs. He looked up her body, at her face, down turned in his direction.

          "You know, Scott," she began, and she was smiling again. "I think just about anything is possible. Now, let's get the hell out of this suffocating room and get some fresh air."

          Scott nodded, pressing his hand to the rough carpet as he raised himself to his feet, tucking the photograph into his jeans pocket. He gestured for Rogue to lead the way, and she did in that flouncing way of hers, ponytail of streaked hair bouncing against her neck as she walked away. He followed behind her, leaving the box behind him, for another day when he would pick out the photographs for the bouquet.

          A bouquet of Jean. Photographs gathered together; all the memories of her forever with each other. Scott was sure that if she were still with them, she would laugh at him and call him a romantic at heart, even as he denied it.

          * * * *

          That night, Xavier's voice pulled him from sleep. Scott blinked his eyes open, staring at the wall on the opposite side of the room while he tried to adjust himself with where he was and why Xavier seemed to be speaking directly into his ear. 

          Or, perhaps, in his mind.

          'Scott, come to my office. Immediately, please.'

          He shot up in bed like a steel rod had been shoved into his spine, tossing the covers from his body and making a half-asleep beeline for the closet.

          'Coming,' Scott replied.

          Less than ten minutes later, he strode into Xavier's office, fully dressed. Charles Xavier was behind his desk, familiar lines dug deeply into the skin of his face, lines that meant only one thing: trouble. Logan, sprawled out in the chair near the door, looked up when Scott entered.

          "Cyke," he grunted. 

          Scott only scowled at him, too tired to deal with it. His eyes moved back to Xavier, even as Ororo and Nightcrawler came through the door behind him. 

          "There's a situation," Xavier stated, his palms flat against the surface of his desk. 

          "What kind of situation?" Scott inquired, taking a seat. There was a migraine, just behind his eyes. He was used to it, but the throbbing irritated like an itch, beating in time with his heart, every rush of blood sending another jolt of pain to his brain.

          Ororo sat down beside Scott, looking more awake than anyone had a right to at this god-awful hour. Her hair was tied back in a messy knot, as if she'd tried to pull it all back at the last minute, and had given up. She nodded at Scott in greeting. He smiled tightly in return.

          "It's in New York City," Xavier began, pushing his wheel chair away from his desk a few inches, picking up the remote sitting on its surface and pointing it toward the television. The television clicked on; a flash of light on the large screen, a spray of static and then a live news feed came through. "I intercepted this from a local news station. They decided not to run the story because it reflected badly on humans in this fight. However, I believe they've been... *convinced* to back politely away from broadcasting a situation such as this one. There are still powers in the government that don't wish for viewers to begin questioning who the right side actually is."

          They all became quiet as the feed played.

          A helicopter light shone over a building. The camera shifted over the city, quickly, moving back to the reporter's face. She was blonde, young, and looked like she was about to be sick. Wind kicked up her hair, made it hard to hear her.

          "It looks like they've got a little girl trapped inside the building..." The feed became a little scratchy, warbling. And then it turned clear again. "She appears to be a mutant, and officials are saying that this is a hate crime against the mutant population, payback for their recent attacks against humans." The camera moved, focusing on the city below again. The building loomed, broken and shadowy, only lit by the yellow, circling light. The reporter continued to talk. "There are a few squad cars outside of the building, but this wasn't designated as a high priority case." The reporter stopped talking, and mumbling could be heard, a male's voice too quiet to pick up. "What?" She asked. The camera panned back to her. She looked tense, pale around the eyes. "Oh... Shit! So why are we even filming? Cut feed. Now!"

          The television screen went to snow. Buzzing.

          "Fuck," Logan grunted from his chair, reaching up to scrub fingers through his wild hair. "They're just gonna let those fuckers do what they want to that little girl?"

          Xavier looked at him calmly. "They don't understand it, not quite as we do. They see us as the threat, Logan. It's going to take time for that to change."

          Scott simmered silently, staring at the dead screen. No, they didn't understand. They would never understand that there was really no difference between them. There were hearts in both humans and mutants, hearts that burned.

          "That's shit, Chuck," Logan muttered, stalking the rug. Caged. The room was too small for him. Scott smiled narrowly at his cursing, agreeing, but said nothing. Logan continued to rant. "They don't give a fuck about who they hurt. They just want to be the superior race. No matter what the cost. No matter how many little girls get caught up in the crossfire."

          "You're generalizing," Xavier replied, tapping his fingers together. "And now's not the time. This brings me to another interesting topic that I've been concerned about. When are you leaving?"

          Logan paused, as if struck. He looked around him for a second, toward Scott, before shaking his head. "I don't know."

          "If you're going to be a part of this team," Xavier began seriously, leaning forward with an intense expression on his tired face. "You're going to have to do better than that. I need to know if we can depend on you, at least for a time. Otherwise, it isn't smart to bring you in on yet another mission. We can't grow to count on you if you're not going to be there."

          Scott kept his eye on Logan, watching the way the man swayed a little on his feet uncertainly, eyes darting around like he'd been trapped. The light snapped over his face, casting him in a pink glow. For a brief moment, Scott was amused. What would the big bad Wolverine say if Scott was to tell him that through his eyes, he always wore red and pink? The humor immediately fled when Logan suddenly stilled, his muscles going rock solid.

          "I'm not ready to leave yet," Logan said, deadly serious, in a gravely voice. "I'm not finished with..."

          Grieving. 

          Xavier simply nodded and gestured for Logan to take his seat again. When he did, his eyes briefly caught on Scott's face and a flicker of understanding passed between them. It was uneasy, a common thread of real pain, and it had Scott looking away, his mouth turned down.

          "How much time do we have?" Ororo asked, bringing the meeting back around to the topic at hand.

          Xavier rubbed a weary hand over his cheek. "We need to take action as soon as possible. The kidnappers are extremists vying for attention. They want to be heard. And I doubt they'll be happy with the lack of exposure. They want everyone to see who has the power; to expose their group nationally, if not internationally."

          "When they realize that they're not being covered by any syndicated news broadcast, it's going to set them off," Scott put in, feeling sick at heart. He pushed it aside. "We need to get in there and get her out before they react."

          "I agree," Ororo said. She stood. "We'll discuss details on the way."

          Xavier nodded at them. As Scott stood, he noticed the professor shifting uneasily in his wheel cheer, as if he couldn't get into a comfortable position. It struck him how aged the Professor had become these past months, how much he had seen compared to *any* of them. Swallowing hard, Scott forced himself to look away and followed the other X-Men out of the room.

          * * * *

          The jet hovered over the abandoned apartment building for a moment. Ororo turned off the lights, careful not to alert the attention of the few policemen at the bottom. There needn't be any casualties. Scott unbuckled the seat belt from around his chest and waist, moving to stand beside Logan as Ororo brought them down onto the roof with barely a sound.

          "Nicely done," he commented, tapping her on the shoulder. She looked up at him, smiling past a slice of hair. Jean had once told him that her hair was white as snow and just as beautiful. Scott had a vague recollection of white, but his mind had clouded over the years and he couldn't quite grasp it. He only knew that sometimes Ororo looked like a chilly statue standing all alone in the wind, never crumbling but never touched. Jean had been her friend, but sometimes mentioned that Ororo never seemed to speak of herself, like she only existed in the now.

          Scott stared out the windshield, where electricity polluted the night sky, making it impossible to see the stars. More than one police siren blared in the city air; a constant wail that no one heard anymore, far too used to the sound.

          Nightcrawler moved up beside them, looking at Logan in that intensely innocent way only he could pull off. "Are we ready?"

          Logan lifted a bushy eyebrow. "Let's go." 

          On the roof of the building, they moved silently, like shadows attaching themselves to the blanket of darkness. Scott, at the front, walked slowly across the stone surface as they approached the edge of the roof. Puffs of smoke rose from the many chimneys throughout the city, fighting off the nighttime chill. He pressed his hand against the side of the chimney next to him, leaning over the ledge a little to determine if the police had changed position yet. They hadn't. They remained lounging against the hood of their vehicle, one smoking a cigarette, the other polishing his handgun as if he was bored. They were talking, low and fast.

          "Bastards," Logan muttered suddenly, close to Scott's ear.

          "Shh," Scott hissed in response, watching as the smoking officer tossed his cigarette away from himself, the tip glowing in the night, stumbling into the grass and dying out. Somewhere, another siren blared, angry and wet with violence.

          "They can't fucking hear us," Logan replied, now leaning over the ledge as well. "They're complaining about the assignment. 'Protecting some mutant brat.' I'd like to cut him a new hole to shit out of."

          "Keep your mind on the situation," Scott warned, turning to face the older man. "Going in angry and getting us all killed isn't going to help the little girl, is it?"

          Logan snorted derisively, but he backed away from the edge, leaning his face up to the sky and flaring his nostrils like he smelled something.

          "Blood," he said, voice crackling with disgust. Shook his head. "This city stinks."

           Ororo and Nightcrawler waited near the arched glass ceiling on the other side of the roof. It was in the shape of a triangle, missing a few panes in some spots, completely broken in others, from an era when the building had been on the A-list, before it had been taken over by termites and squatters. Scott moved swiftly over to them, nodding to let them know that the cops were occupied enough not to give them any trouble.

          "I don't hear anyone there," Logan stated, grabbing the rope he had on his back. He attached it to the stone roof with its clawed weight, tossing the slack down through one of the missing panels of the glass ceiling.

          Scott secured his gloves and grabbed onto the durable rope, before quickly and silently dropping down into the room, immediately enveloped by the darkness. Only shards of light broke through the cracks of the boarded up windows, breaking over the odd pieces of furniture squatters had managed to gather into the vacated apartment. Touching a button on the side of his visor, he turned on the night vision component, peering around the room.

          And old mattress sat in the corner, stained with either piss or booze - by the smell of it, possibly both. Scott's lips turned down in distaste as he continued to look around at the trash littered room. Spotting no movement or sign that anyone had been there in the last few hours, he gave a tug to the rope, signaling the others that it was safe to come down. Moving to the side, he waited for them to drop down, one by one.

          Ororo also had on her night vision goggles as she came down, but Logan and Nightcrawler, able as they were to rely on their senses, had no use for them. Old dead dust tickled Scott's nostrils as they slid like silk across the floorboards, knowing that time was short before it became obvious to the extremists that their message wasn't being heard. The door leading out of the apartment was half-open, held that way by an empty bottle.

          Scott slipped out first, shoulders close to the wall, glancing both ways down the long hallway. No one else waited there, just the slivers of a streetlight peering in through yet another broken, dirty window and an unattached door leaning against the wall he had his back against. Motioning to the others, Scott pushed forward. They moved cautiously down the hallway, feet barely making a whisper of a sound as they touched the hardwood floor, stained with things Scott didn't even want to try to imagine.

          Behind him, he heard a vague hiss from Logan. And then, "The smell of blood is getting stronger."

          Scott swallowed, continuing on. They reached the door to the stairway within seconds. Maybe it was instincts, or maybe it was just deductive reasoning, but his stomach balled up into a knot of flesh as he opened the door and slid into the stairwell. He took the steps quicker than he should have; his hands slipped over the metal railing with a squeak as he descended, and his breath began to ricochet in his chest.

          Logan was right behind him, breathing down his neck.

          As they headed toward the second floor, a list of names and profiles worked its way through Scott's brain like snapshots. Paula Jasc, a 41 year old single mother with thin eyes and weak knees, pissed about losing her husband to a pretty young mutant. She's the group's passion. Michael Laney, a twenty-something pretentious author who wants nothing more than to write about something that no one else ever has before, and if that meant he had to kill a few mutants, so be it. His face is perfect. He's the group's brain. Eric Adams, the thirty-three year old fetishist, who longs for something real to sink his knife into. He doesn't care if it's mutant or human. He's the group's muscle. Then there is Aaron Lawrence, a fifty-year-old woman with a metal jaw. A mutant attacked and killed her children twenty-three years ago. She has never forgotten. Aaron... Aaron is the leader.

          Short of breath, Scott reached the bottom level before the others.

          "Cyke!" Logan hissed from behind, but Scott had already rushed through the door. Ororo and Nightcrawler were still on the stairs of the second floor as Logan followed Scott's rapidly disappearing figure, running down the hallway on light feet that barely touched the floor. It was a trick all mutants must necessarily learn: run light, run fast, and run quietly.

          'This is what I am,' Scott thought as he neared the room Xavier had pinpointed as the extremists' location. 'This is what I do. I have to do this.'

          Logan grabbed him before he could barrel into the room and completely wreck the plan. Scott struggled violently, muttering against the hand covering his mouth and kneeing the older man in the gut. Logan heaved a breath and dragged Scott back a few steps, shaking him roughly to get his attention.

          "I understand, all right?" he growled at Scott.

          'He said there was blood...' Scott thought, trying to pull himself together. He focused his eyes on the man before him, seeing the urgency there.

          "You understand what, exactly?" Scott whispered. "Yeah, you loved her. But I had her and now she's not there. I can take it. I can. But I can't fail at anything else."

          Logan shook his head, releasing him. "Smarten the fuck up, is all I'm saying. You're the leader here - think about that before you go losing control like a rookie. Think about what you just said to me on the roof."

          Scott nodded and pressed his back against the wall, taking a few deep breaths. He saw Ororo and Nightcrawler approaching over the line of Logan's shoulder and straightened, slightly ashamed that he'd almost revealed them all.

          Ororo shook her head, making it clear that now wasn't the time for apologies.

          The plan was to distract the group by kicking in the door while Nightcrawler crawled up the wall, onto the ceiling and got the position of the girl while Logan, Ororo, and Scott rushed her captors. That was the plan. Very simple and broad, leaving a lot of room for the details to be handled as they happened. Of course, strategic maneuver could only account for the opponent's tactics to a certain degree. Some things no one could predict.

          Scott kept thinking about the blood Logan scented in the air. It could be a dead rat or a dog. It could be that one of the four were wounded. Hell, it could be a dead body in an alley near by. He took a deep breath as the other three X-Men lined up beside him, and then he slammed his foot hard against the door. It flew open, into an apartment lit by a single dirty bulb.

          There was a muttered 'fuck' in a raspy, cigarette-thick voice. Eric Adams leapt from his folding chair with a snarl, eyes a little wild as he lunged at them with a streak of metal. Nightcrawler had already vanished from sight, a puff of dark air that skittered across the ceiling like a ball of gas in the night sky. Eric looked like a bloodthirsty vampire, teeth shining beneath the light, knife snaking out to slice off a piece of his skin. Scott ducked out of the way just in time, dodging the larger man even as Logan's hand popped out of nowhere, slamming into Eric's jaw, knocking him backwards.

          There wasn't time for thank you. There were possibly three other people in the room. They couldn't afford to be distracted by a single one and let the others pounce on them like a litter of baby sharks. Scott spotted Paula struggling with Ororo at the other side of the room, decking the mutant square in the nose. Ororo's head bounced off the side of a table as she lost her balance and fell, but she recovered immediately, sweeping her leg out and taking Paula's feet out from beneath her. The woman banged her face off the floor as she twisted mid-air to try and catch herself.

          "Bitch," Paula cursed through bloody teeth, before attacking again.

          Ororo smiled, a slice of her lips upward that spoke of the deadly thrill a fight brought out in her. Logan jerked around, growling, when Eric managed to get to his feet after being hit so hard with Logan's metal fist. 

          'He has that covered,' Scott thought, looking around for Michael and Anna. His eyes stopped their search at the sight of a figure leaning in the corner, casually smoking a cigarette, gaze flickering over the violent scene before him. 'He wants to write something that means something. Something that no one else has dared to write before. He doesn't care what he has to do to reach that goal.'

          Their eyes caught, held.

          Michael pushed himself off the wall, propelling himself forward with the momentum of a boot heel against the plaster. The sound of the fight around them filled Scott's ears as he let the man approach him. Flesh hitting flesh. Grunts coming from a deep place inside the belly. Logan's growls were distinct among the others' curses.

          "So, you're a mutant?" Michael asked in a quiet, civilized voice.

          "Looks like," Scott replied, muscles tense as he eyed the other man.

          Michael nodded, watching him with curiosity. "How's that working out for you?"

          Scott sighed, balling up his left hand into the fist and striking the man smartly across the jaw. Michael put up his hands as if to stop him, but his movements were too slow. 

          "About like that," Scott replied when Michael backed away, wiping blood from his mouth. "Anything else you'd like to know?"

          Michael shook his head, and attacked awkwardly, slamming his shoulder into Scott's stomach and driving him back against the small television in the middle of the room. He fell over it, taking it down and smashing it against the floor as he went. Its crash sounded loudly through the room, and Scott saw Logan look over briefly from his brawl as Scott rolled out of the way of Michael's boot heel when the man tried to slam it down on his face.

          Scott reared up at the man above him, driving his fist into Michael's solar plexus, knocking him back. Michael was winded, gasping for breath as Scott rose to his feet easily, slamming his foot into the back of the man's leg, knocking him to his knees where he was met with a fist in the face. It knocked him out like a light.

          Scott smiled, thin like a blade and glanced over his shoulder. Ororo was wiping a spot of blood off of her cheek where Paula had drawn blood with her nails. She nodded at Scott. Logan removed the knife from his shoulder, wincing a little as he gestured to the unconscious man at his feet.

          "I'll tie them up," Logan said, and Ororo tossed him the rope she'd had hooked to her belt. He snapped it in his hands, taking obvious pleasure in the task set before him. "Play with them a little before we hand 'em over to the cops."

          Scott looked around uneasily. "Where's Aaron?"

          Ororo went to his side and shook her head, a line appearing between her eyebrows. She frowned and scanned the room. "I was wondering the same thing about Kurt."

          Crying. Someone was crying.

          Shadows moved on the wall, catching Scott's eye. The wall was near the kitchen, where light burned brightly. Lips firmed, he gestured for her to follow him. They picked their way through the debris the fight had caused, carefully approaching the archway. As they edged closer, the sound of crying became progressively louder.

          Apprehension wormed nauseatingly into his gut. Scott peered around the edge of the wall cautiously, scanning the room for Aaron. What he saw stopped him dead and he stared blankly at the sight before him. Nightcrawler was kneeling on the floor, rocking back and forth at the knees of the little girl.

          The dead little girl.

          'The scent of blood is getting stronger,' Logan had said.

          Ororo gasped in horror at his side and Scott closed his eyes.

          The child was dead and Aaron was nowhere in sight. 

          * * * *

          A creeping sickness took up residence in his throat.

          Scott and Logan entered the mansion through the garage door, walking quietly through the gas-scented room. Logan walked well of course, with his healing power. Scott watched him bitterly as he limped up the cement steps and wiped a streak of blood from the cut on his forehead. It still bled, but the flow had slowed significantly. Didn't matter. His insides felt like they'd been mangled by something other than violence, an image of the child's body weighing there like a stone floating to the bottom of the ocean.

          The last thing he expected when stepping inside the halls of the mansion was to have three of his students waiting by the door, staring at him with wide, nervous eyes. Scott's gaze immediately landed on Rogue who stood shivering in her nightgown, arms wrapped around herself. The lamplight sat on her shoulders, shrouding her in a gentle cloak. Bobby and Jubilee stood at her side with extremely weary expressions, like they could fall asleep on their feet at any moment.

          "Shit," Logan muttered. "Ain't you supposed to be in bed?"

          Rogue's eyes flicked toward him, and then landed back on Scott. "We were, but I heard the jet leaving and I kinda woke J. and Bobby up to wait for you guys."

          Scott moved further into the hallway, closing the door firmly behind him. Ororo and Kurt had taken an alternate route, through the garden and up the winding stairs that led to the adults' rooms. If the look on Rogue's face was any indication, he should have done the same.

          "Everything is okay now," Scott told her quietly. "You can go back to bed."

          Okay? Right. He could tell her just how okay things were not. He could tell her what it was like place a careful finger on the hand of a small girl whose mutant power had been electricity living within her skin, yet not feel any spark at all. He could tell her that this battle between mutant and humans might never stop. They might never accept mutants as human beings with something extra, as a natural step in evolution.

          "What happened?" Rogue asked Logan, ignoring Scott's suggestion. "I woke up and I felt sick. I only ever feel that sick when something really bad has happened."

          Logan shrugged, glancing back at Scott. A pained frown wrinkled his forehead. 

          "It's nothing you need to know," Scott said, swallowing. He could still see the little girl's lifeless eyes, staring at him accusingly from her mute body. "This isn't for you."

          Her lips parted. Bobby's fingers closed over her shoulder, squeezing, but she pushed him away. "Don't TELL me this isn't for me. I've been working my ass off to try and prove to you guys that I'm ready to learn. I've been on missions before. I've been at the center of a lot of this crap, so you can't just tell me that I don't need to know. Not when I wake up sick at heart at the idea of not going with you guys. Look at you! You're bleeding! Am I supposed to always sit here and wait for the next class to start when I could be there helping? I've had a taste of it. I want it."

          "Hey," Bobby whispered near her ear. "Calm down."

          "No!"

          Scott was about to speak when Ororo suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. "Rogue," she said, quietly. Rogue froze, before turning slowly, looking over Bobby's shoulder at the white-haired woman staring reproachfully down at her. Scott saw the guilt swim onto Rogue's face, like a cloud blunting her features.

          "This isn't the time," Ororo stated, descending the steps carefully, as if she was skating across ice. Smooth. Always so precise. "You have no idea how much this isn't the time."

          "I'm sick of not being able to do anything!" Rogue moved out of Bobby's reach as he once again tried to calm her. She turned her back on the men and Jubilee, staring desperately at the woman before her. Scott could only lean wearily against the wall and rub the skin on his forehead, where beneath the flesh and bone, a headache brewed.

          "You must have patience," Ororo said, reaching the bottom level and striding toward Rogue. She took the girl's shoulders into her hands, holding her tightly. 

          Rogue stared up at the older woman. Her voice was agonized when she spoke. "I hate not helping."

          Ororo considered her for a long moment. It was a filtered silence that not all of them could hear. Only a few knew what it meant. Scott felt vomit rise in the back of his throat. Bobby and Jubilee looked as if someone had just shaken them awake, both watching the back of Rogue's head as if she had changed before their very eyes. Maybe she had. The way she stood suggested determination. He recognized the fight in her that had once been in him.

          It had faded. Everything faded eventually.

          "Then you *will* do something," Ororo stated simply. "You will begin your training so that you are prepared when we need you down the road. You are still young, so there is time for proper lessons. Now go to bed. We'll speak further on this tomorrow once I've had my beauty sleep."

          Scott's chin dropped against his chest as his heart nearly stopped. 

          "No," he growled abruptly, breaking the silence. 

          Logan arched a bushy eyebrow in interest, lips swiveling to the side of his face like: 'shit, did tight-ass just growl?' Ororo's eyes traveled over Rogue's head, landing on Scott's face as her fingers fell away from Rogue's twisting form.

          "Only over my dead body is she ever going out there again," he said, glaring at Ororo from behind his visor. A part of him wished he could just take it off so that for once they understood the force within him, that he was alive and burning like the rest of them, even if he had to control it constantly. He moved to take Rogue's face between his palms, protected from her deadly skin by the gloves he wore. She looked shocked, slack-jawed as he spoke intensely. "It's not safe. I'm not about to lose everyone I care about to this cause. I don't even know if I *believe* in it anymore. So just... no."

          He released Rogue and she stumbled back, grabbing onto Bobby's forearm. A horrible weight settled in the room, taut and obese. He couldn't take it. Feeling trapped, Scott turned and strode down the hallway, away from them and their insane suggestions. Rogue wasn't about to put her life on the line every day. She had enough problems in her life as it was, simply by being what she was.

          Behind him, a curtain lifted up. It caught in the wind of the open window, like a hand waving goodbye.

          * * * *

          Scott found her standing in the center of his bedroom when he returned. He pulled up short, holding the edge of the door. Rogue turned, wearing a robe around her nightgown, hair fanning out around her shoulders. She looked tired and beautiful and strong. He wondered if she'd been waiting there for long.

          "What are you doing here?" He didn't mean to bark it, but couldn't keep his words gentle.

          "I want to talk to you," she said seriously. Her arms wrapped around her chest, gloved fingers catching the broken pieces of light from the moon. "Logan told me what happened tonight."

          Scott shut the door as he pushed himself into the room. His lips turned up sardonically and the back of his throat hurt. "Of course he did."

          "What's that supposed to mean?"

          He shook his head. "Nothing. It means nothing."

          "Scott..." Her accent softened the hard sound of his name. He ignored her, moving to his desk, shuffling through the papers its surface. Busy work. She came up behind him, touching his arm briefly. 

          He turned his head to look at her. "She wasn't even five," he whispered. "She didn't do anything to them and they mutilated her."

          "God." 

          Scott laughed mirthlessly, shoulders shaking. He wasn't sure the shaking was going to stop. It just kept coming on in waves until he felt Rogue press her cheek against him, between his shoulder blades. She sighed, gripping his arms.

           "Fuck," he whispered, closing his eyes. "You don't need to know this."

          She stepped away from him and Scott turned, taking a seat on the corner of his desk. The tension already radiated off of her.

          "You keep saying that," she muttered.

          "I mean it every time," Scott replied, clenching his fists together and setting them in his lap. It was all he could do not to shake her until she had a change of heart and realized what a stupid decision it was to want something that could only hurt her. "I don't want you to be a part of this."

          Rogue's lips thinned. "And I don't think I can give ya that. I'm sorry."

          "Yeah," Scott said, chin dropping against his chest. He stared down at his hands, twisted together, aching to his fingertips. "Everyone is sorry. All the time."

          "I can't make things better for you by not going after what I want," Rogue cut in, gently but firm. A burst of sardonic laughter broke from his chest and he looked up at her bemused expression.

          "You want this life, Rogue? So very badly? I suppose it's the wonderful pay that attracts you. Oh wait, we don't get paid. Maybe it's the travel that intrigues you. Well, traveling to exotic locations where everyone tries to kill you is so much fun I can see why."

          "Stop it."

          "What?" Scott's face remained blank. "You don't want all that? I can't imagine why you wouldn't."

          "I said stop," she hissed. "I want to help people, okay? I want a place, somewhere to fit. Maybe you can't understand that but don't take what happened tonight out on me."

          Scott opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Heaving a lumbering sigh, he slid off the desk and approached her. "What makes you want it so badly? What makes you think it will be where you fit? Tell me that much."

          Rogue shrugged, pulling back a little. Her eyebrows drew together. "I've taken from people," she explained, shifting uneasily beneath the robe, like she hadn't revealed this to anyone before. "That's all I've done. My skin takes and takes."

          "It's not your fault, Rogue."

          "I *know* that." She grimaced in frustration. "That's not the point. Ever since I got here, I've watched ya'll go off on one mission after another. Doing something to make things different. I've seen you fight for something good. You have something to believe in. And I believe in it too. I want to fight for it. I want to give something for once."

          "Rogue-"

          "No. I do, Scott. Nothing you say is gonna change it, so don't even try talking me out of it. Ororo said she was going to talk to Charles... I mean, Professor Xavier tomorrow." 

          At her slip, Scott's eyebrows shot up on his forehead. Was Magneto still in her head?

          "I can't just sit around and watch like everyone else," she continued hurriedly, like she was afraid he was going to stop her. "That's not who I am. At least, that's not who I am today. You never know about tomorrow."

          Her attempt at humor fell flat. Lips trembling, she dropped her arms from around her waist, lifting them in the air in a half-shrug, as if to say: 'that's all folks.' 

          Scott closed his eyes for a moment, taking it all in. She sounded sincere, like she needed this. In his heart, he knew that maybe she did. When she'd last helped them in the White House, that single time that was meant to stay a single time, she'd walked a little bit taller, stood a little more firmly on the ground. The uniform had suited her, but he'd been too distracted to pay much attention to the new way she'd held herself.

          "Fine." The word was weighted. "Okay, Rogue. You win. If you want to start training to become an X-Man, then I'm not going to stop you."

          Rogue's face brightened by degrees. First her mouth turned up, and then her lashes shielded the pleasure in her eyes. A moment later, she rushed toward him, throwing her arms around his neck. He sighed and patted her shoulder awkwardly. "Just one condition." When she pulled away to face him, he smiled. "I oversee your training."

          * * * *

          Everyone had a picture of Jean in their hands. Rogue had passed them out at the beginning of the ceremony, before people began taking their seats in the fold-up chairs lined up evenly across the lawn. Scott remained distant to everything around them, finding himself distracted by the glare of the sun, a crackling red flame dancing over the lenses of his glasses.

          The grass was freshly cut, the flowers clipped and placed near the enlarged photo of Jean set up in front of the chairs.

          "Not too many," Rogue had warned. "The pictures will take their place. Her beauty and life should be surrounding us, not dead flowers."

          She'd been right.

          In a daze, Scott faced everyone. A wind gently ruffled the trees over their heads, lifting his hair from his forehead, tangling in it like fingers from the past.

          "I keep trying to understand," he told them, clutching a photograph of Jean in his pocket. "I keep trying to figure out why she did what she did. Why she sacrificed her life to spare us when she had so much left to live for. I guess that's what heroes do and that's what Jean has always been. A hero. My hero."

          Scott paused, looking around at the faces staring back at him, all emotion intent on Jean's memory. His heart gave a hard lurch, but he shoved himself on. "Sadly, her parents couldn't make it to this ceremony, but Jean was the type of person to take what she had and make the best of it. She found ways to be happy in the little things, like the fact that we all have each other here, thanks to Xavier. We're not alone in the world. I can only hope, that wherever she is now, that's one thing Jean isn't. Alone."         

          ****

Rogue stood off to the side, holding a photograph to her heart as if she was lost. She had a sundress on, the type that slapped against the skin with every caress of the wind. It was the type of dress Jean would have adored. Tears blinded him, as surely as the sun that broke through the trees and pressed through his sunglasses.

          "I think that's Jean's biggest gift to the world. Connection. Of the mind and of the heart. She taught us how to be with each other."

          * * * *

          Scott scrubbed his hands with anti-bacterial soap, getting the skin clean so that he could go in and eat dinner with everyone. Rogue had commented on his anal-retentive tendencies as he'd excused himself from the table, and for a moment, he'd seen Logan in her eyes. It'd been a little unnerving. The girl had more personalities in her than a schizophrenic.

          He flexed his fingers, scrubbing in the soft place between them. His hands felt raw, like he'd scraped all the skin off and stood with throbbing muscles in their place.

           A constant ache throbbed in the back of his throat, as if someone had pinched the skin there and refused to let go. Spitefully, he scrubbed the skin a little harder, before forcing himself to carefully fold the cloth and set it back onto the sink. He turned the cold water on, placing his hands underneath the spray and watching the suds wash away as the water hit them.

          The soap washed down the drain, swirling, vanishing, red.

          'Jean, you know you don't have to do those dishes.'

          'I'm not busy. I might as well.'

          'Is it because of your nightmares? They're getting worse.'

          'No. No, Scott. I'm fine.'

          A throat being cleared behind him had his shoulders tensing, the memory ripped from his head. He wasn't surprised to find Logan leaning against the wall with a beer dangling from his fingers.

          "You okay?" Logan grunted, obviously ill at ease. A muscle beneath his eye twitched every few seconds, like he didn't really want to be there.

          Scott shrugged, just as uncomfortable. "As good as can be expected." He paused, looking the other man over. He looked a little worse for the wear, as if he hadn't been sleeping lately. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes, thick and heavy. "You?"

          Logan smiled without humor, a baring of teeth. "About the same."

          Scott nodded and reached for a towel, drying his hands. Logan strolled over next to him and opened the refrigerator door, pulling out another bottle.  A cool slab of air slapped against Scott's shins, making him shiver.

           He eyed the bottle Logan held out to him suspiciously.

          "C'mon Cyke," Logan said, swinging the beer bottle in his grip, trying to entice. "You look like you need to loosen up a bit."

          "Is that your polite way of saying I'm a tightass?"

          Logan snorted. "Geeze, man, I ain't ever polite and don't go telling people I am. Besides, if I wanted to call you a tightass, I'd call you a tight ass... ya tightass."

          With a sigh, Scott took the beer. "Thanks."

          "Yeah."

          They stood together in silence for a few moments, taking pulls from the bottles. Scott grimaced a little at the taste of the beer. Logan noticed and flicked an amused eyebrow at him. Scott only shook his head and took another sip, letting the bitter liquid wash away the ache in his throat.

          He could still smell the freshly cut grass that had surrounded him as he gave his speech on Jean's life. The picture of her weighed heavily in the back pocket of his suit pants.

          "So, what is it?" Scott asked when he could no longer contain himself.

          Logan sighed, eyeballing the bottle before setting it aside with a click as it touched the porcelain sink. "That obvious? Huh. I guess I just wanted to tell you... that I'm... well, that I'm... fuck." 

          Scott crossed his arms over his chest when Logan scrubbed his hands over his face, digging fingers through all that hair. 

          "You're sorry for something," he deduced.

          Logan shrugged, looking distinctly irritated. "I'm just saying that when... when Jean was around, I might have acted in ways I shouldn't have."

          Scott's stomach clenched. Fuck. "Doesn't matter now."

          "No." Logan frowned heavily, showing some of his true age in the lines around his mouth. "No. I guess it doesn't, does it?"

          * * * *

          The next morning, when he rolled over, he knew even before he opened his eyes that Jean wasn't beside him. Scott stretched his arm out over her side of the bed, pressing his cheek into the pillow, shutting his eyes.

          "I miss you, Jean."

          Time moved and the clock ticked, but he didn't hear it. The seconds and minutes passing weren't loud to him. He wasn't running to keep up with them. No, Scott had already fallen back asleep, holding what had been her pillow to his heart.

          Goodbye could be a quiet thing.

          End Chapter Four (4/15)

          **To all those reading and reviewing, damn I love you. **

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